UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


SOUTHERN   AUTHORS  IN   POETRY 
AND    PROSE 


ED 

liiil 


SOUTHERN  AUTHORS 
IN  POETRY  AND  PROSE 


BY 


KATE  ALMA  ORGAIN 


NEW  YORK  AND  WASHINGTON 
THE  NEALE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

1908 


145827 


COPYRIGHT,  1908,  BY 
THE  NEALE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


TS 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  SIDNEY  LANIER 9 

II.  AUGUSTA  J.  EVANS 24 

III.  THEODORE  O'HARA 33 

IV.  MRS.   ROSA  VERTNER  JOHNSON    (GRIF 

FITH)       40 

V.  JOHN  PENDLETON  KENNEDY       ...  46 

VI.  MADAME  OCTAVIA  WALTON  LE  VERT    .  55 

VII.  PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE       ....  63 

VIII.  WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS     ....  74 

IX.  JAMES  BARRON  HOPE 84 

X.  JOHN  ESTEN  COOKE 96 

XL  MRS.  MARY  S.  B.  DANA-SHINDLER       .  105 

XII.  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS no 

XIII.  MRS.  VIRGINIA  L.  FRENCH     .     .     .     .  119 

XIV.  GRACE  ELIZABETH  KING        ....  128 
XV.  FRANCIS  ORRERY  TICKNOR     .      .      .      .  132 

XVI.  ELISABETH  WHITFIELD  BELLAMY     .      .  141 

XVII.  JOHN  REUBEN  THOMPSON     ....  146 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVIII.  CATHERINE  ANNA  WARFIELD       .      .      .  153 

XIX.  IRWIN  RUSSELL 160  < 

XX.  GEORGE  WASHINGTON  CABLE     .     .     .  168 

XXI.  HENRY  TIMROD 175 

XXII.  MRS.  MARY  VIRGINIA  TERHUNE   (MA 
RION  HARLAND) 186 

XXIII.  EDGAR  ALLEN  POE 194 

XXIV.  MARY  NOAILLES  MURFREE     .      .      .      .  214 
XXV.  MARIA  J.  MC!NTOSH 224 

XXVI.  THOMAS  NELSON  PAGE  228 


SOUTHERN    AUTHORS  IN    POETRY 
AND    PROSE 


SIDNEY   LANIER 

1842—1881 

THIS  poet  was  born  in  Macon,  Georgia,  on  the 
third  of  February,  1842,  and  came  from  a  long 
line  of  fine  ancestors.  His  father,  Robert  S.  Lanier, 
was  a  prominent  lawyer,  and  his  mother  was  Miss 
Mary  Anderson,  a  woman  of  remarkable  gift  in 
music  and  poetry.  A  friend  once  remarked,  "  No 
wonder  Lanier  is  a  poet  and  a  genius.  The  blood 
that  flows  through  his  veins  has  coursed  in  those 
of  artists,  poets,  musicians,  and  royal  personages." 

Very  early  in  life  Sidney  Lanier  showed  a  pas 
sion  for  reading,  a  talent  and  fondness  for  music, 
and  when  a  mere  lad  he  delighted  in  forming 
amateur  orchestras  of  children.  Having  a  keen 
sense  of  humor,  he  often  kept  the  family  amused 
by  his  mimicry,  and  later  he  utilized  this  faculty 
of  observation  in  his  poems. 

At  fifteen  he  was  admitted  into  Oglethorpe  Col 
lege,  near  Milledgeville,  Georgia,  and  was  gradu 
ated  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  and  then  was  given  a 
position  as  tutor  in  that  institution.  At  the  break 
ing  out  of  the  Civil  War,  Sidney  and  his  brother, 
Clifford,  joined  the  volunteers  at  Macon,  Georgia, 


io  SIDNEY   LANIER 

and,  although  several  times  offered  promotion,  the 
brothers  declined,  because  they  did  not  wish  to  be 
separated.  They  were  in  thej>et6nd  Georgia  Bat 
talion  of  Infantry  and  were  stationed  at  first 
amongst  the  marshes  of  Sewells  Point,  opposite 
Fortress  Monroe.  There  the  men  all  had  much 
sickness  and  they  were  ordered  to  Wilmington, 
and  in  Wilmington,  as  Lanier  says,  "  they  had  the 
dry  shakes  of  the  Sand  Hills."  Their  battalion 
participated  in  the  famous  Seven  Days'  Battle 
around  Richmond,  and  later  they  were  sent  up  to 
Petersburg.  Here  Sidney  and  Clifford  obtained 
a  transfer  to  Major  Milligan's  Signal  Corps,  and 
finally  they  were  attached  to  the  staff  of  Major- 
General  French.  In  1864  the  brothers  separated, 
as  Sidney  was  assigned  to  duty  of  signal  officer 
on  a  blockade  runner.  He  was  captured  by  the 
Federals,  and  imprisoned  for  five  months  at  Point 
Lookout.  During  this  imprisonment  the  seeds  of 
disease  were  sown  which  caused  his  death  while 
yet  a  young  man.  When  he  was  exchanged  he 
came  near  dying  on  the  voyage  to  City  Point,  and 
when  at  last  he  reached  home,  footsore  and  ex 
hausted,  he  was  prostrated  by  sickness  for  many 
weeks. 

After  the  war,  although  his  brain  was  teeming 
with  beautiful  thoughts,  Lanier  was  compelled  to 
bear  the  monotony  and  wear  of  teaching  and  such 
uncongenial  work  as  clerk  in  a  hotel  in  Mont- 


SIDNEY   LANIER  n 

gomery.  He  found  some  time,  however,  in  the 
hard  struggle  for  a  living,  to  write  his  first  book, 
a  volume  of  fiction  called  "  Tiger  Lilies,"  pub 
lished  in  1867.  The  book  is  now  out  of  print. 

It  contains  many  fine  passages  like  the  following: 

» 

A  man  has  seventy  years  in  which  to  explain  his  life; 
a  book  must  accomplish  its  birth,  and  its  excuse  for  birth, 
at  the  same  instant. 

The  hills  sit  here  like  old  dethroned  kings,  met  for 
consultation ;  they  would  be  very  garrulous,  surely,  but 
the  exquisite  peace  of  the  pastoral  scene  below  them  has 
stilled  their  life;  they  have  forgotten  the  ancient  anarchy 
which  brought  them  forth;  they  dream  and  dream  away, 
without  discussion  or  endeavor. 

How  long  our  arms  are  when  we  are  young!  Nothing 
but  the  whole  world  will  satisfy  their  clasp. 

To  him  who  has  not  loved  some  man  with  the  ardor  of 
a  friendship  at  first  sight,  one  can  only  say,  "  Nature  has 
dealt  hardly  with  you,  sir." 

Music  is  in  common  life  what  heat  is  in  chemistry,  an 
all-pervading,  ever-present,  mysterious  genius. 

Late  explorers  say  they  have  found  some  nations  that 
had  no  God,  but  I  have  not  read  of  any  that  had  no  music. 

One  might  as  well  be  killed  with  a  shower  of  hail 
stones  as  of  diamonds;  it  is  but  death  after  all. 

"  Sorrow  makes  poets,"  Memnon's  statue  sang  when 
the  morning  light  struck  it,  but  I  think  men  and  women 
sing  when  the  darkness  draws  on. 

The  great  uncomplaining  trees,  whose  life  is  surely  the 
finest  of  all  lives,  since  it  is  nothing  but  the  continual 


12  SIDNEY   LANIER 

growing  and  being  beautiful;  the  silent,  mysterious  trees, 
most  strong  where  most  gnarled,  and  most  touching  when 
wholly  blasted. 


In  1867  Sidney  Lanier  was  married  to  Miss 
Mary  Day  of  Macon,  Georgia.  Through  poverty 
and  sickness,  in  all  changes  and  conditions  she  was 
to  him  a  loving,  faithful  wife,  an  inspiration  and 
a  blessed  comforter.  Of  her  he  wrote  in  his  ex 
quisite  poem,  "  My  Springs  "  : 

0  Love,  O  Wife,  thine  eyes  are  they, 
My  springs,  from  out  whose  shining  gray 
Issue  the  sweet  celestial  streams 

That  feed  my  life's  bright  Lake  of  Dreams. 

Dear  eyes,  dear  eyes  and  rare  complete — 
Being  heavenly-sweet  and  earthly-sweet, 

1  marvel  that  God  made  you  mine, 

For  when  He  frowns,  'tis  then  ye  shine! 

Lanier's  earliest  passion  was  for  music.  He 
learned  almost  by  intuition  to  play  on  every  kind 
of  instrument, — flute,  banjo,  organ,  piano,  violin 
and  guitar,  devoting  himself  more  especially  to 
the  flute  because  his  father  was  opposed  to  the 
violin.  He  said  of  himself  that  his  greatest  talent 
lay  in  music.  His  flute  was  his  constant  com 
panion,  and  when  he  was  captured  during  the  war 
he  managed  to  hide  his  flute  in  his  sleeve.  When 


SIDNEY  LANIER  13 

he  went  to  Baltimore  to  live  and  work,  William 
Hayes  Ward  says,  "  He  took  his  pen  and  flute,  for 
staff  and  sword,  and  turned  his  face  northward." 
In  the  winter  of  1868  Sidney  Lanier  was  seized 
with  his  first  hemorrhage,  and  for  four  following 
years  there  was  a  steady  decline  in  his  health. 
Hoping  for  some  relief,  in  1872  he  left  Georgia 
and  went  to  San  Antonio,  Texas,  but  even  that 
salubrious  climate  brought  him  no  healing  balm, 
and  "  he  was  restless  as  a  caged  bird,  for  he 
hungered  and  thirsted  for  time  and  health  and 
strength  to  express  his  soul  in  music  and  poetry." 
In  1873  he  gave  up  law,  which  he  had  studied 
and  undertaken  in  his  father's  office,  and  went  to 
Baltimore,  where  he  was  soon  engaged  as  first 
flute  for  the  Peabody  Concerts.  "  Music  was  to 
him  what  it  is  to  the  birds,  what  it  is  to  the  brooks. 
He  played  it  technically  as  it  was  written,  but  he 
added  sunshine  and  spring  air,  or  the  laughter 
and  tears  of  joy  and  sorrow."  Asgar  Hamerick, 
the  musical  director  in  the  Peabody  Symphony 
Orchestra  of  Baltimore,  says  of  Lanier:  "  I  will 
never  forget  the  impression  he  made  upon  me 
when  he  played  the  flute  at  a  concert  in  1878;  his 
tall,  commanding,  manly  presence,  his  flute  breath 
ing  noble  sorrows,  noble  joys,  the  orchestra  softly 
responding.  The  audience  was  spellbound.  Such 
distinction,  such  refinement!  He  stood,  the  mas 
ter,  the  genius."  In  1879  he  was  appointed  to  a 


i4  SIDNEY   LANIER 

lectureship  in  English  Literature  in  the  Johns  Hop 
kins  University,  and  this  meant  a  regular  income. 
What  he  might  have  accomplished  with  health 
and  strength  back  of  his  great  genius  who  car 
tell?  As  it  was,  often  in  intense  pain  and  suffering, 
he  delivered  his  lectures  on  "  Verse  "  and  "  The 
Novel."  "  He  was  engaged  in  a  three-fold  strug 
gle  for  health,  for  bread  and  for  a  literary  career." 
Although  he  spent  most  of  the  last  years  of  his  life 
in  Baltimore,  yet  he  was  compelled  to  go  away 
often  in  search  of  health.  During  severe  illness 
and  in  critical  relapses,  financial  relief  came  from 
his  father  and  brother.  How  dark  some  of 
Lanier's  days  seemed  may  be  judged  by  his  de 
spairing  lines  in  the  poem  "  The  Raven  Days." 

O  Raven  days,  dark  Raven  days  of  sorrow, 
Bring  to  us  in  your  whetted  ivory  beaks 

Some  sign  out  of  the  far  land  of  To-morrow, 

Some  strip  of  sea-green  dawn,  some  orange  streaks. 

Ye  float  in  dusky  files,  forever  croaking, 

Ye  chill  our  manhood  with  your  dreary  shade. 

Dumb  in  the  dark,  not  even  God  invoking, 
We  lie  in  chains,  too  weak  to  be  afraid. 

O  Raven  days,  dark  Raven  days  of  sorrow, 

Will  ever  any  warm  light  come  again  ? 
Will  ever  the  lit  mountains  of  To-morrow 

Begin  to  gleam  athwart  the  mournful  plain  ? 


SIDNEY   LANIER  15 

The  works  of  Lanier  abound  in  expressions  of 
deep  and  abiding  faith  in  God.  The  poem,  "  The 
Crystal,"  is  a  beautiful  tribute  to  the  perfect  char 
acter  of  Christ.  The  tenderest  thing  he  ever 
wrote  about  our  Lord  was  his  "  A  Ballad  of 
Trees  and  the  Master,"  beginning: 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  went, 

Clean  forspent,   forspent; 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  came, 

Forspent  with  love  and  shame. 

But  the  olives  they  were  not  blind  to  Him, 

The  little  gray  leaves  were  kind  to  Him, 

The  thorn-tree  had  a  mind  to  Him, 

When  into  the  woods  He  came. 

At  the  instigation  of  Bayard  Taylor,  Sidney 
Lanier  was  complimented  with  the  commission 
to  write  the  cantata  for  the  opening  of  the  Cen 
tennial  Exhibition  in  1876. 

Gradually  overpowered  by  consuming  fever,  he 
went,  accompanied  by  his  ever-devoted  wife,  to 
West  Chester,  Pa.,  where  his  fourth  child  was 
born.  Unable  to  stand  the  climate,  he  soon  re 
turned  to  his  home  in  Baltimore.  At  the  end  of 
April,  1 88 1,  he  made  his  last  visit  to  New  York 
to  arrange  about  the  publication  of  his  "  King 
Arthur  "  series.  In  December  of  1880,  "  when  he 
was  too  feeble  to  raise  his  food  to  his  mouth,  and 
with  fever  at  104  degrees,"  writes  William  Hayes 


16  SIDNEY  LANIER 

Ward,  "  he  pencilled  his  last  and  greatest  poem, 
'  Sunrise,'  one  of  his  projected  series  of  the 
'  Hymns  of  the  Marshes.'  It  seemed  as  if  he 
were  in  fear  that  he  would  die  with  it  unuttered." 
The  doctors  advised  tent  life,  and  with  aid  from 
his  brother  Clifford,  he  and  his  family  were  ar 
ranged  in  tents  near  Richmond  Hill,  three  miles 
from  Asheville,  N.  C.  But  the  passing  time 
brought  no  relief,  and  he  began  a  journey  in  a  car 
riage  across  the  mountains  to  Lynn,  S.  C.  There 
deadly  sickness  attacked  him,  and  he  died  Septem 
ber  7,  1881. 

His  wife  and  four  children,  Charles,  Sidney, 
Henry  and  Robert,  were  left  to  mourn  his  death. 

He  gave  the  memory  of  a  spotless  life  of  purity 
as  inheritance  to  his  children,  as  well  as  his  wealth 
of  poetry  and  prose.  "  Even  to  the  end,  words 
of  beauty  and  love  and  passion  and  melodious 
meter  poured  from  his  brain,  wanting  only  strength 
to  give  them  out  to  the  needy  world." 

His  body  was  taken  to  Baltimore.  Services 
were  held  in  the  church  of  St.  Michael's,  conducted 
by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Wm.  Kirlus.  The  poet's  body 
was  buried  in  Green  Mount  Cemetery  in  a  lot 
owned  by  Mr.  Lawrence  Turnball. 

The  Rev.  W.  F.  Tillett,  of  Vanderbilt  Univer 
sity,  says:  "  Lanier  was,  like  Wordsworth,  a  great 
lover  of  Nature.  Consider,  for  instance,  that  poem 
which  many  critics  have  pronounced  the  finest  he 


SIDNEY  LANIER  17 

ever  wrote,  from  an  artistic  point  of  view,  '  The 
Marshes  of  Glynn.'  '  And  again,  "  Lanier's 
writings  everywhere  breathe  the  spirit  of  ethical 
earnestness,  and  abound  in  allusions  that  reveal  his 
deep  and  abounding  faith  in  God." 

Thomas  Nelson  Page  says :  "  Lanier  died  too 
young,  but  not  until  he  had  proved  that  a  great 
poet  could  come  from  the  South." 

A  bust  of  Sidney  Lanier  was  presented  to  the 
Johns  Hopkins  University  by  his  kinsman,  Charles 
Lanier,  of  New  York  City.  Sidney  Lanier's  prin 
cipal  works  are :  "  Florida,  Its  Scenery,  Cli 
mate  and  History";  "Tiger  Lilies,"  a  novel; 
"Poems,"  "The  Boy's  Froissart,"  "The  Sci 
ence  of  English  Verse,"  "  The  Boy's  King  Ar 
thur,"  "The  Boy's  Mabinogion,"  "The  Boy's 
Percy,"  "  The  English  Novel  and  the  Principles 
of  Its  Development." 

Among  his  musical  works  are  "  Choral  Sym 
phony,"  for  chorus  and  orchestra;  "Symphony 
Life,"  in  four  movements,  and  "  Symphony  of  the 
Plantation." 

From  his  last  poem,  "  Sunrise,"  we  quote  these 
lines : 

Friendly,  sisterly,  sweetheart  leaves, 
Oh,  rain  me  down  from  your  darks  that  contain  me 
Wisdoms  ye  winnow  from  winds  that  pain  me, — 
Sift  down  tremors  of  sweet-within-sweet 


1 8  SIDNEY   LANIER 

That  advise  me  of  more  than  they  bring, — repeat 
Me  the  woods-smell  that  swiftly  but  now  brought  breath 
From  the  heaven-side  bank  of  the  river  of  death, — 
Teach  me  the  terms  of  silence, — preach  me 
The  passion  of  patience, — sift  me, — impeach  me, — 

And  there,  oh  there 

As  ye  hang  with  your  myriad  palms  upturned  in  the  air, 
Pray  me  a  myriad  prayer. 


THE  MARSHES  OF  GYLNN  * 

Glooms  of  the  live-oaks,  beautiful-braided  and  woven 
With  intricate  shades  of  the  vines  that  myriad-cloven 
Clamber  the  forks  of  the  multiform  boughs, — 
Emerald  twilights, — 
Virginal  shy  lights, 

Wrought  of  the  leaves  to  allure  to  the  whisper  of  vows, 
When  lovers  pace  timidly  down  through  the  green  colon 
nades 
Of  the  dim  sweet  woods,  of  the  dear  dark  woods, 

Of  the  heavenly  woods  and  glades, 
That  run  to  the  radiant  marginal  sand-beach  within 
The  wide  sea-marshes  of  Glynn; — 


Beautiful  glooms,  soft  dusks  in  the  noon-day  fire, — 
Wildwood  privacies,  closets  of  lone  desire, 
Chamber  from  chamber  parted  with  wavering  arras  of 
leaves, — • 

*  From   poems   of   Sidney  Lanier,   copyrighted   1884,   1891,   by 
Mary  D.  Lanier;  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


SIDNEY   LANIER  19 

Cells  for  the  passionate  pleasure  of  prayer  to  the  soul  that 

grieves, 
Pure  with  a  sense  of  the  passing  of  saints  through  the 

wood, 

Cool  for  the  -dutiful  weighing  of  ill  with  good ; — 
Oh,  braided  dusks  of  the  oak  and  woven  shades  of  the 

vine, 
While  the  riotous  noon-day  sun  of  the  June-day  long  did 

shine 

Ye  held  me  fast  in  your  heart  and  I  held  you  fast  in  mine ; 
But  now  when  the  noon  is  no  more,  and  riot  is  rest, 
And  the  sun  is  a-wait  at  the  ponderous  gate  of  the  West, 
And  the  slant  yellow  beam  down  the  wood-aisle  doth  seem 
Like  a  lane  into  heaven  that  leads  from  a  dream, — 
Ay,  now,  when  my  soul  all  day  hath  drunken  the  soul  of 

the  oak, 
And  my  heart  is  at  ease  from  men,  and  the  wearisome 

sound  of  the  stroke 

Of  the  scythe  of  time  and  the  trowel  of  trade  is  low, 
And  belief  overmasters  doubt,  and  I  know  that   I 

know, 
And  my  spirit  is  grown  to  a  lordly  great  compass 

within, 
That  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the 

marshes  of  Glynn 
Will  work  me  no  fear  like  the  fear  they  have  wrought  me 

of  yore 

When  length  was  fatigue,  and  when  breadth  was  but  bit 
terness  sore, 
And  when  terror  and  shrinking  and  dreary  unnamable 

pain 
Drew  over  me  out  of  the  merciless  miles  of  the  plain, — 


20  SIDNEY   LANIER 

Oh,  now,  unafraid,  I  am  fain  to  face 

The  vast  sweet  visage  of  space. 

To  the  edge  of  the  wood  I  am  drawn,  I  am  drawn, 
Where  the  gray  beach  glimmering  runs,  as  a  belt  of  the 

dawn, 
For  a  mete  and  a  mark 

To  the  forest-dark: — 

So: 

Affable  live-oak,  leaning  low, — 
Thus — with  your  favor — soft,  with  a  reverent  hand, 
(Not  lightly  touching  your  person,  Lord  of  the  land!) 
Bending  your  beauty  aside,  with  a  step  I  stand 
On  the  firm -packed  sand, 

Free 
By  a  world  of  marsh  that  borders  a  world  of  sea. 

Sinuous  southward  and  sinuous  northward  the  shim 
mering  band 
Of  the  sand-beach  fastens  the  fringe  of  the  marsh  to 

the  folds  of  the  land. 
Inward  and  outward  to  northward  and  southward   the 

beach-lines  linger  and  curl 
As  a  silver-wrought  garment  that  clings  to  and  follows  the 

firm  sweet  limbs  of  a  girl.  f 

Vanishing,  swerving,  evermore  curving  again  into  sight, 
Softly  the  sand-beach  wavers  away  to  a  dim  gray  looping 

of  light. 
And  what  if  behind  me  to  westward  the  wall  of  the  woods 

stands  high? 
The  world  lies  east:  how  ample,  the  marsh  and  the  sea 

and  the  sky ! 


SIDNEY   LANIER  21 

A  league  and  a  league  of  marsh-grass,  waist-high,  broad 

in  the  blade, 
Green,  and  all  of  a  height,  and  unflecked  with  a  light  or 

a  shade, 

Stretch  leisurely  off,  in  a  pleasant  plain, 
To  the  terminal  blue  of  the  main. 

Oh,  what  is  abroad  in  the  marsh  and  the  terminal  sea? 

Somehow  my  soul  seems  suddenly  free 
From  the  weighing  of  fate  and  the  sad  discussion  of  sin, 
By  the  length   and   the  breadth   and   the   sweep   of  the 
marshes  of  Glynn. 

Ye  marshes,  how  candid  and  simple  and  nothing-withhold 
ing  and  free 

Ye  publish  yourselves  to  the  sky  and  offer  yourselves  to 
the  sea! 

Tolerant  plains,  that  suffer  the  sea  and  the  rains  and  the 
sun, 

Ye  spread  and  span  like  the  catholic  man  who  hath 
mightily  won 

God  out  of  knowledge  and  good  out  of  infinite  pain, 

And  sight  out  of  blindness  and  purity  out  of  a  stain. 

As  the  marsh-hen  secretly  builds  on  the  watery  sod, 
Behold  I  will  build  me  a  nest  on  the  greatness  of  God ; 
I  will  fly  in  the  greatness  of  God  as  the  marsh-hen  flies 
In  the  freedom  that  fills  all  the  space  'twixt  the  marsh  and 

the  skies; 

By  so  many  roots  as  the  marsh-grass  sends  in  the  sod 
I  will  heartily  lay  me  a-hold  on  the  greatness  of  God; 


22  SIDNEY   LANIER 

Oh,  like  to  the  greatness  of  God  is  the  greatness  within 
The  range  of  the  marshes,  the  liberal  marshes  of  Glynn. 
And  the  sea  lends  large,  as  the  marsh ;  lo,  out  of  his  plenty 

the  sea 

Pours  fast :  full  soon  the  time  of  the  flood-tide  must  be ; 
Look  how  the  grace  of  the  sea  doth  go 
About  and  about  through  the  intricate  channels  that  flow 
Here  and  there, 

Everywhere, 
Till  his  waters  have  flooded  the  uttermost  creeks  and  the 

low-lying  lanes, 

And  the  marsh  is  meshed  with  a  million  veins, 

That  like  as  with  rosy  and  silvery  essences  flow 

In  the  rose-and-silver  evening  glow. 

Farewell,  my  lord  Sun! 
The  creeks  overflow ;  a  thousand  rivulets  run 
'Twixt  the  roots  of  the  sod ;  the  blades  of  the  marsh-grass 

stir; 

Passeth  a  hurrying  sound  of  wings  that  westward  whirr ; 
Passeth,  and  all  is  still ;  and  the  currents  cease  to  run ; 
And  the  sea  and  the  marsh  are  one. 

How  still  the  plains  of  the  waters  be ! 
The  tide  is  in  his  ecstasy. 
The  tide  is  at  his  highest  height: 
And  it  is  night. 

And  now  from  the  Vast  of  the  Lord  will  the  waters  of 

sleep 

Roll  in  on  the  souls  of  men, 
But  who  will  reveal  to  our  waking  ken 


SIDNEY   LANIER  23 

The  forms  that  swim  and  the  shapes  that  creep 

Under  the  waters  of  sleep  ? 
And  I  would  I  could  know  what  swimmeth  below  when 

the  tide  comes  in 
On  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  the  marvellous  marshes 

of  Glynn. 


AUGUSTA   J.    EVANS 
1838 

AUGUSTA  J.  EVANS,  now  Mrs.  L.  M.  Wilson, 
of  Mobile,  was  born  at  Columbus,  Georgia,  in 
1838.  She  had  eight  brothers  and  sisters,  and  she 
is,  on  her  mother's  side,  a  descendant  of  the  How 
ards,  one  of  the  first  families  of  Georgia. 

When  she  was  a  mere  child  her  father  removed 
with  his  family  to  Texas.  They  lived  a  while  in 
Galveston  and  Houston,  and  early  in  1847  went 
to  the  then  frontier  town  of  San  Antonio. 

Mrs.  Wilson  always  retained  vivid  remem 
brance  of  the  life  there,  when  the  Mexican  War 
was  at  its  height  and  San  Antonio  was  the  gather 
ing  place  for  United  States  troops  sent  to  rein 
force  General  Taylor,  and  when  society  there, 
owing  to  the  unsettled  conditions,  was  thoroughly 
disorganized.  Her  life  necessarily  was  one  of 
much  seclusion.  There  were  no  schools,  and  her 
mother  conducted  her  education  at  home.  It  was 
during  this  life  of  isolation,  when  hours  of 
thought  and  reading  were  developing  her  mind 
rapidly,  that  the  idea  of  writing  began  to  have  at 
tractions  for  the  young  girl. 

24 


AUGUSTA    L    EVANS  25 

Early  in  her  seventeenth  year  she  wrote  "  Inez," 
in  which  she  wished  to  embody  the  features  of  the 
Texan  war  for  independence  and  what  she  be 
lieved  to  be  a  misuse  of  the  Catholic  religion.  On 
this  account  the  book  received  much  unfavorable 
criticism,  and  her  judgments  were  deemed  imma 
ture.  Still,  "  Inez  "  received  many  favorable  no 
tices,  considering  the  youth  of  the  writer. 

No  one  but  her  mother  had  known  of  her  am 
bitious  undertaking,  until  one  Christmas  morning 
Miss  Evans  placed  her  finished  manuscript  in  her 
father's  hands.  It  was  published  in  1855,  anony 
mously. 

Continuing  a  severe  course  of  study  Miss  Evans 
confined  her  writing  to  articles  for  Mobile  papers, 
and  it  was  not  till  1859  that  "  Beulah  "  appeared, 
being  published  by  Messrs.  Derby  and  Jackson. 
The  book  became  very  popular.  The  thread  run 
ning  through  the  story  is  the  baneful  influence  of 
skepticism,  and  the  author  is  very  realistic  in  the 
road  over  which  she  makes  the  heroine  travel. 
"  She  takes  '  Beulah  '  by  the  hand  and  goes  over 
the  ground  of  unbelief  with  merciless  fidelity;  not 
a  doubt  is  left  unassailed;  every  dragon  of  specu 
lation  is  unearthed,  and  over  and  again  is  fought 
the  strong  battle."  Beulah  Benton  and  Guy  Hart 
well  make  a  grim  pair  of  lovers  with  discussions 
of  "  ontology,"  "  psychology,"  and  "  eclecticisms  "; 
but  they  are  strong,  fine  characters.  Miss  Evans 


26  AUGUSTA    J.    EVANS 

has  no  touch  of  anything  impure  or  sensual  in 
any  of  her  writings. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-three,  when  "  Beulah  " 
was  written,  the  author  had  studied  deeply  into 
metaphysics,  her  life  and  the  habits  of  a  recluse 
having  given  her  the  opportunity.  Of  her  mother 
Miss  Evans  said:  "  She  has  been  my  Alma  Mater, 
to  whom  I  owe  everything,  and  whom  I  reverence 
more  than  all  else  on  earth."  In  her  home  at 
Mobile  Mrs.  Wilson  fills  her  days  with  steady  ap 
plication  and  those  unobtrusive,  kindly  acts  which 
prove  her  to  be  a  beautiful  and  noble  woman. 

Her  other  novels  are:  "St.  Elmo,"  "  Vashti," 
"  Infelice,"  "  At  the  Mercy  of  Tiberius,"  "  Mi- 
caria  "  and  "  The  Speckled  Bird." 

After  a  silence  of  many  years  Miss  Evans  pro 
duced  her  late  work,  "  The  Speckled  Bird,"  which 
was  looked  for  with  great  eagerness.  It  has  been 
much  criticised,  both  favorably  and  adversely. 

"  Whatever  may  be  said  of  Miss  Evans,  she  is 
a  writer  of  great  strength,  and  while  her  style  is 
somewhat  florid,  she  never  sacrifices  her  meaning 
by  ambiguous  words.  She  paints  all  her  pictures 
in  brilliant  colorings,  but  they  are  the  kind  that 
only  a  true  artist  dare  essay.  She  is  skilled  with  her 
palette  of  words,  like  the  great  artist  that  she  is, 
and  if  she  paints  a  sunset,  there  is  no  doubt 
that  it  is  a  realistic  one  in  each  instance.  That  she 
uses  the  adjective,  there  is  no  doubt,  but  that  she 


AUGUST  A    J.    EVANS  27 

is  injudicious,  no  one  can  say  who  will  analyze 
her  motive.  In  other  words,  she  is  a  most  potent 
user  of  our  very  elastic  language,  and  gets  the 
best  possible  meaning  out  of  it.  Not  a  juggler 
of  words  in  any  sense,  she  commands  her  tongue 
to  its  fullest  scope,  and  dares  put  colorings  that 
weaker  thinkers  would  refrain  from  readily.  It  is 
this  very  boldness  of  touch,  stroke  and  tint  that 
gives  glow  and  beauty  to  her  thought  and  mode 
of  expression." 

ST.  ELMO 

"  He  stood  and  measured  the  earth:  and  the  everlasting 
mountains  were  scattered,  the  perpetual  hills  did  bow." 

These  words  of  the  prophet  of  Shigionoth  were  sung 
by  a  sweet,  happy,  childish  voice,  and  to  a  wild,  anomalous 
tune,  solemn  as  the  Hebrew  chant  of  Deborah,  and  fully 
as  triumphant. 

A  slender  girl  of  twelve  years'  growth  steadied  a  pail 
of  water  on  her  head,  with  both  dimpled  arms  thrown  up, 
in  ancient  classic  Caryatides  attitude,  and,  pausing  a  mo 
ment  beside  the  spring,  stood  fronting  the  great  golden 
dawn", — watching  for  the  first  level  ray  of  the  coming  sun, 
and  chanting  the  prayer  of  Habakkuk.  Behind  her  in 
silent  grandeur  towered  the  huge  outline  of  Lookout 
Mountain,  shrouded  at  summit  in  gray  mist,  while  centre 
and  base  showed  dense  masses  of  foliage  dim  and  purplish 
in  the  distance,  a  stern,  cowled  monk  of  the  Cumberland 
brotherhood.  Low  hills  clustered  on  either  side,  but  im 
mediately  in  front  stretched  a  wooded  plain,  and  across 
this  the  child  looked  at  the  flushed  sky,  rapidly  brightening 


28  AUGUSTA    J.    EVANS 

into  fiery  and  blinding  radiance,  until  her  wild  song 
waked  echoes  among  the  far-off  rocks.  The  holy  hush 
of  early  morning  had  rested  like  a  benediction  upon  the 
scene,  as  though  nature  had  laid  her  broad  finger  over 
her  great  lips,  and  waited  in  reverent  silence  the  advent 
of  the  sun.  Morning  among  the  mountains  possessed 
witcheries  and  glories  which  filled  the  heart  of  the  girl 
with  adoration  and  called  from  her  lips  rude  but  exultant 
anthems  of  praise.  The  young  face,  lifted  toward  the 
cloudless  east,  might  have  served  as  a  model  for  a  pic 
tured  Syriac  priestess,  one  of  Baalbec's  vestals  ministering 
in  the  olden  time  in  that  wondrous  and  grand  temple  at 
Heliopolis. 

The  large  black  eyes  held  a  singular  fascination  in  their 
mild  sparkling  depths,  now  full  of  tender  loving  light 
and  childish  gladness,  and  the  flexible  red  lips  curved  in 
lines  of  orthodox  Greek  perfection,  showing  remarkable 
versatility  of  expression;  while  the  broad,  full,  polished 
forehead,  with  its  prominent,  swelling  brows,  could  not 
fail  to  recall  even  to  casual  observers  the  calm,  powerful 
face  of  Lorenzo  de  Medici,  which  if  once  looked  on,  fas 
tens  itself  upon  heart  and  brain,  to  be  forgotten  no  more. 
Her  hair,  black,  straight,  waveless  as  an  Indian's,  hung 
around  her  shoulders,  and  glistened,  as  the  water  from  the 
dripping  bucket,  through  the  wreath  of  purple  morning 
glories  and  scarlet  cypress,  which  she  had  twined  about  her 
head  ere  lifting  the  cedar  pail  to  its  resting  place.  She 
wore  a  short-sleeved  dress  of  yellow-striped  home-spun, 
which  fell  nearly  to  her  ankles,  and  her  little  bare  feet 
gleamed  pearly  white  on  the  green  grass  and  rank  dewy 
creepers  that  clustered  along  the  margin  of  the  bubbling 
spring.  Her  complexion  was  unusually  transparent,  and 


AUGUSTA    J.    EVANS  29 

early  exercise  and  mountain  air  had  rouged  her  cheeks 
till  they  matched  the  brilliant  hue  of  her  scarlet  crown. 

A  few  steps  in  advance  of  her  stood  a  large,  fierce  yel 
low  dog,  with  black  scowling  face,  and  ears  cut  close  to 
his  head,  a  savage,  repulsive  creature,  who  looked  as  if 
he  rejoiced  in  an  opportunity  of  making  good  his  name, 
"  Grip."  In  the  solemn  beauty  of  that  summer  morning, 
the  girl  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  mission  upon  which 
she  came,  but,  as  she  loitered,  the  sun  flashed  up,  kindling 
diamond  fringes  on  every  dew-beaded  chestnut  leaf  and 
oak  bough,  and  silvering  the  misty  mantle  which  envel 
oped  Lookout.  A  moment  longer  that  pure-hearted  Ten 
nessee  child  stood  watching  the  gorgeous  spectacle,  drinking 
draughts  of  joy,  which  mingled  no  drop  of  sin  or  selfish 
ness  in  its  crystal  waves,  for  she  had  grown  up  alone  with 
nature, — utterly  ignorant  of  the  roar  and  strife,  the  burn 
ing  hate,  and  cunning  intrigue  of  the  great  world  of  men 
and  women,  where  "  like  an  Egyptian  pitcher  of  tamed 
vipers,  each  struggles  to  get  its  head  above  the  other."  To 
her,  earth  seemed  very  lovely,  life  stretched  before  her 
like  the  sun's  path  in  that  clear  sky,  and,  free  from  care 
and  foreboding  as  the  fair  June  day,  she  walked  on  pre 
ceded  by  her  dog — and  the  chant  burst  once  more  from 
her  lips.  "  She  stood  and  measured  the  earth ;  and  the 
everlasting  mountains  were  scattered,  the  perpetual 

hills •"     The  sudden,   almost  simultaneous  report  of 

two  pistol  shots  rang  out  sharply  on  the  cool  calm  air,  and 
startled  the  child  so  violently  that  she  sprang  forward  and 
dropped  the  bucket.  The  sound  of  voices  reached  her 
from  the  thick  wood  bordering  the  path,  and,  without 
reflection,  she  followed  the  dog,  who  bounded  off  toward 
the  point  whence  it  issued.  Upon  the  verge  of  the  forest 


30  AUGUSTA    J.    EVANS 

she  paused,  and  looking  down  a  dewy  glade  where  the 
rising  sun  darted  its  earliest  arrowy  rays,  beheld  a  spectacle 
which  burned  itself  upon  her  memory.  A  group  of  five 
gentlemen  stood  beneath  the  dripping  chestnut  and  sweet 
gum  arches;  one  leaned  against  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  two 
were  conversing  in  undertones,  and  two  faced  each  other 
fifteen  paces  apart,  with  pistols  in  their  hands.  Ere  she 
could  comprehend  the  scene  the  brief  conference  ended, 
the  seconds  resumed  their  places  to  witness  another  fire, 
and  like  the  peal  of  a  trumpet  echoed  the  words:  "  Fire! 
One — two — three !  " 

The  flash  and  ringing  report  mingled  with  the  com 
mand,  and  one  of  the  principals  threw  up  his  arm  and 
fell.  When  with  horror  in  her  wide-strained  eyes  and 
pallor  on  her  lips,  the  child  staggered  to  the  spot,  and 
looked  on  the  prostrate  form,  he  was  dead.  The  hazel 
eyes  stared  blankly  at  the  sky,  and  the  hue  of  life  and  ex 
uberant  health  still  glowed  on  the  full  cheek,  but  the 
ball  had  entered  the  heart,  and  the  warm  blood,  bubbling 
from  his  breast,  dripped  on  the  glistening  grass.  The 
surgeon  who  knelt  beside  him  took  the  pistol  from  his 
clenched  fingers,  and  gently  pressed  the  lids  over  his  glaz 
ing  eyes.  Not  a  word  was  uttered,  but  while  the  seconds 
sadly  regarded  the  stiffening  form,  the  surviving  principal 
coolly  drew  a  cigar,  lighted  it,  and  placed  it  between  his 
lips.  The  child's  eyes  had  wandered  to  the  latter  from  the 
pool  of  blood,  and  now  in  a  shuddering  cry  she  broke  the 
silence. 

"Murderer!" 

The  party  looked  around  instantly  and  for  the  first 
time  perceived  her  standing  there  in  their  midst,  with 
loathing  and  horror  in  the  gaze  she  fixed  on  the  perpe- 


AUGUSTA    J.    EVANS  31 

trator  of  the  awful  deed.  In  great  surprise  he  drew  back 
a  step  or  two  and  asked  gruffly : 

"Who  are  you?   What  business  have  you  here?" 

"  Oh!  how  dared  you  murder  him?  Do  you  think  God 
will  forgive  you  on  the  gallows?  "  « 

He  was  a  man  probably  twenty-seven  years  of  age, 
singularly  fair,  handsome,  and  hardened  in  iniquity,  but 
he  cowered  before  the  blanched  and  accusing  face  of  the 
child,  and  ere  a  reply  could  be  framed,  his  friend  came 
close  to  him. 

"  Clinton,  you  had  better  be  off.  You  have  barely 
time  to  catch  the  Knoxville  train,  which  leaves  Chatta 
nooga  in  half  an  hour.  I  would  advise  you  to  make  a  long 
stay  down  in  New  York,  for  there  will  be  trouble  when 
Dent's  brother  hears  of  this  morning's  work." 

"Aye!  Take  my  word  for  that,  and  put  the  Atlantic 
between  you  and  Dick  Dent,"  added  the  surgeon,  smiling 
grimly,  as  if  the  anticipation  of  retributive  justice  afforded 
him  pleasure. 

"  I  will  simply  put  this  between  lis,"  replied  the  homi 
cide,  fitting  his  pistol  to  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and  as  he 
did  so  a  heavy  antique  diamond  ring  flashed  on  his  little 
ringer. 

Without  even  glancing  toward  the  body  of  his  antago 
nist,  Clinton  scowled  at  the  child,  and,  turning  away,  was 
soon  out  of  sight. 

"  Oh,  sir!  "  will  you  let  him  get  away?  Will  you  let 
him  go  unpunished  ?  " 

"  He  cannot  be  punished,"  answered  the  surgeon,  look 
ing  at  her  with  mingled  curiosity  and  admiration. 

"  I  thought  men  were  hung  for  murder." 

"  Yes — but  this  is  not  murder." 


32  AUGUSTA    J.    EVANS 

"  Not  murder?    He  shot  him  dead!  What  is  it?  " 

"  He  killed  him  in  a  duel,  which  is  considered  quite 

right  and  altogether  proper." 

"  A  duel  ?  "     She  had  never  heard  the  word  before. 

"  To  take  a  man's  life  is  murder." 


THEODORE  O'HARA 

1820—1867 

THIS  soldier-poet  was  born  in  Danville,  Ken 
tucky,  January  n,  1820.  His  father,  Keen 
O'Hara,  an  Irish  gentleman  and  scholar,  came  to 
America  during  the  revolutionary  troubles  in  Ire 
land.  "  Though  belonging  to  the  Irish  gentry, 
he  had  been  an  ardent  rebel  in  the  famous  up 
rising  in  1798,  which  cost  young  Emmet  his  life. 
Eluding  the  vigilance  of  the  British  officers,  Keen 
O'Hara  was  fortunate  enough  to  escape  to  Amer 
ica."  He  settled  in  Danville,  Kentucky,  where  he 
taught  in  the  academy  at  that  place,  and  later  he 
established  a  school  in  Jefferson  County,  where 
among  his  pupils  were  Zachary  Taylor,  afterwards 
President  of  the  United  States,  and  Colonel  George 
Grogham,  known  in  history  as  the  "  hero  of  San- 
dusky." 

Inheriting  his  father's  patriotic  temperament, 
Theodore  O'Hara  early  gave  evidence  of  an  un 
usually  fine  mentality,  and  all  the  enthusiasm  and 
ardor  of  an  Irish  temperament. 

He  was  given  the  benefit  of  a  thorough  college 
education  in  the  Catholic  schools  of  Kentucky, 

33 


34  THEODORE    O'HARA 

and  soon  became  an  accomplished  scholar,  espe 
cially  in  ancient  and  modern  languages.  He  was 
admitted  to  the  bar  in  1842,  but  the  practice  of 
law  offered  few  attractions  to  his  poetic  mind,  and 
he  went  into  journalistic  work  as  editor  of  "  The 
Frankfort  Yeoman,"  and  later  of  "  The  Louis 
ville  Times." 

From  a  letter  of  J.  Stoddard  Johnson,  a  life-long 
friend,  we  have  the  following  facts  of  his  brilliant 
career:  "On  the  breaking  out  of  the  Mexican 
War  Theodore  O'Hara  was  appointed  captain 
and  assistant  quartermaster  of  the  volunteers.  He 
was  brevetted  for  gallant  and  meritorious  conduct 
at  the  battle  of  Cherubusco,  and  honorably  dis 
charged  October  15,  1848." 

O'Hara  now  resumed  the  editorship  of  "  The 
Frankfort  Yeoman."  In  1850  he  took  part  with 
Lopez  in  the  first  Cuban  Expedition  with  the  rank 
of  colonel.  At  Cardenas,  while  making  a  success 
ful  charge  on  the  Governor's  palace,  he  was  se 
verely  wounded,  and  was  brought  back  to  the 
United  States.  Fortunately  he  was  not  sufficiently 
recovered  to  return  in  the  Second  Expedition,  and 
thus  escaped  the  fate  of  Lopez,  Crittenden,  and 
others,  who  were  captured  and  shot. 

Subsequently  O'Hara  entered  the  regular  army 
and  was  made  captain  in  the  famous  "  Second 
Cavalry,"  with  whose  fortunes  have  been  associ 
ated  such  men  as  Robert  E.  Lee,  George  H. 


THEODORE    O'HARA  35 

Thomas,  Albert  Sidney  Johnston,  Kirby  Smith, 
and  John  B.  Hood,  each  destined  to  achieve  dis 
tinction  in  the  bloody  conflict  of  the  sixties. 

At  the  breaking  out  of  the  Civil  War  O'Hara 
was  living  in  Mobile,  where  he  had  been  connected 
editorially  with  "  The  Mobile  Register,"  but  he 
immediately  enlisted  in  the  Confederate  Army,  en 
tering  the  Twelfth  Alabama  Infantry  as  lieu 
tenant-colonel.  A  short  time  before  the  battle  of 
Shiloh  he  was  invited  by  General  Albert  Sidney 
Johnston  to  become  a  member  of  his  personal  staff, 
and  resigning  his  regimental  position,  O'Hara 
accepted.  At  the  battle  of  Shiloh  he  was  near 
the  side  of  Johnston  when  the  latter  was  mor 
tally  wounded,  and  accompanied  the  General's 
remains  to  New  Orleans.  Colonel  O'Hara  then 
became  a  member  of  the  staff  of  General  John  C. 
Breckinridge,  as  inspector-general,  and  at  the 
battle  of  Murfreesboro,  December  31,  1862,  and 
for  some  time  afterwards  was  acting  chief-of- 
staff.  In  the  early  summer  of  1863  he  retired 
from  active  military  service  and  made  his  home 
in  Columbus,  Georgia,  where,  at  the  close  of  the 
war,  he  engaged  in  the  cotton  business.  In  the 
spring  of  1867  he  was  living  on  the  plantation  of 
a  friend,  Captain  Grant,  near  Guerryton,  Bullock 
County,  Alabama,  where  he  died  June  6,  1867. 
In  1873,  by  resolution  of  the  Legislature  of  Ken 
tucky,  Colonel  O'Hara's  remains  were  brought 


36  THEODORE    O'HARA 

home  to  his  native  State  and  interred,  after  an 
address  delivered  by  General  Wm.  Preston,  in  the 
presence  of  a  large  assembly  of  citizens.  His  body 
rests  in  the  State  military  department  of  the  ceme 
tery, 

"  And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by  the  hero's 
sepulcher." 

Colonel  O'Hara  was  never  married.  He  was 
a  man  of  strikingly  handsome  person,  and  with 
a  fine  intellectual  countenance.  To  superior  clas 
sical  attainments  he  added  the  qualities  of  a  bril 
liant  orator  and  poet.  No  collection  of  either 
his  poems  or  orations  having  been  made,  his  fame 
as  an  orator  lives  only  in  tradition,  while  as  a 
poet,  his  merit  now  is  attested  by  his  widely  quoted 
poem  "  The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead."  In  regard  to 
the  time  of  the  production  of  this  noble  poem 
there  exists  much  error.  It  is  generally  said  to 
have  been  written  on  the  occasion  of  the  imposing 
public  funeral  given  by  the  Commonwealth  of 
Kentucky  to  her  soldiers  who  had  fallen  in  Mexico. 
This  event  occurred  July  20,  1847,  at  which  time 
Colonel  O'Hara  was  in  Mexico.  The  weight  of 
authority  tends  to  show  that  the  poem  was  not 
written  till  1850.  It  has  been  quoted  everywhere 
over  our  land,  and  lines  from  it  are  to  be  found  in 
a  large  number  of  the  principal  Federal  ceme 
teries. 


THEODORE    O'HARA  37 

Another  touching  poem  of  this  poet-soldier  is 
"  The  Old  Pioneer."  A  handsome  marble  monu 
ment  in  the  cemetery  at  Frankfort  is  simply  in 
scribed  with  his  name  and  date  of  his  death.  Mr. 
George  W.  Ranch,  in  his  little  volume  entitled 
"  The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead  and  Its  Author,"  says 
that  he  hopes  some  day  this  inscription  may  be 
changed  to  read  u  Theodore  O'Hara,  Author  of 
'  The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead,'  "  for  he  has  given  to 
the  world  one  of  its  most  precious  gems  of  mar 
tial  poetry. 

THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD 

The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo; 

No  more  on  Life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 

On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 

And  Glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind; 

No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind ; 

No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms; 

No  braying  horn,  nor  screaming  fife 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 


145827 


38  THEODORE    O'HARA 

Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust, 

Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed  ; 

Their  haughty  banner,  trailed  in  dust, 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud — 

And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 

The  red  stains  from  each  brow, 

And  the  proud  forms,  by  battle  gashed, 

Are  free  from  anguish  now. 

The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade, 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 

The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout,  are  past; 

Nor  War's  wild  note,  nor  Glory's  peal, 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 

Those  breasts  that  never  more  may  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight. 

Full  many  a  Norther's  breath  has  swept 

O'er  Angostura's  plain, 

And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 

Above  its  moldering  slain. 

The  raven's  scream,  or  eagle's  flight, 

Or  shepherd's  pensive  lay, 

Alone  awakes  each  sullen  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  dread  fray. 

Sons  of  the  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground, 
Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 
Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resound 
Along  the  heedless  air. 


THEODORE    O'HARA  39 

Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 
Shall  be  your  fitter  grave; 
She  claims  from  War  his  richest  spoil — 
The  ashes  of  her  brave. 

Thus  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 

Far  from  the  gory  field ; 

Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast 

On  many  a  bloody  shield; 

The  sunshine  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here, 

And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'   sepulcher. 

Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead, 
Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave! 
No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 
The  herbage  of  your  grave  ; 
Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot 
While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 
Where  Valor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell, 

When  many  a  vanished  year  hath  flown, 

The  story  how  ye  fell ; 

Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  Winter's  blight, 

Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom, 

Shall  dim  one  ray  of  holy  light 

That  gilds  your  glorious  tomb. 

— Courtesy  of  J.  Stoddard  Johnson. 


MRS.  ROSA  VERTNER  JOHNSON  (GRIF 
FITH) 

1828—1894 

MRS.  JOH.NSON  was  born  in  Natchez,  Missis 
sippi,  in  1828,  her  maiden  name  being  Griffith. 
When  she  was  nine  years  old  her  mother  died,  but 
she  found  in  her  maternal  aunt,  Mrs.  Vertner, 
a  second  mother,  from  whom  she  received  faith 
ful  love  and  fostering  care.  By  adoption  the 
name  of  Vertner  became  hers,  and  later  in  life 
she  said,  "  I  have  never  known  the  misery  of  being 
motherless,  as  she  [Mrs.  Vertner]  fulfilled  most 
tenderly  and  unceasingly  a  fond  mother's  duty 
toward  me." 

Mary  Forrest  says  the  early  childhood  of  Rosa 
Vertner  was  passed  at  Burlington,  a  beautiful 
country-seat  near  Port  Gibson,  Mississippi.  Her 
fondness  for  this  place  amounted  almost  to  a  pas 
sion.  "  Here,"  said  Rosa,  "  I  learned  to  think 
and  feel,"  and  here  her  poetical  talent  began  to 
express  itself.  She  prattled  in  rhyme  long  before 
she  could  write.  The  charms  of  "  Burlington  " 
and  its  refined  influences,  and  the  constant  sym 
pathy  and  instruction  of  her  poet-father  rapidly 

40 


ROSA    FERTNER    JOHNSON  41 

developed  the  mind  and  heart  of  this  beautiful 
girl. 

For  the  sake  of  her  education  the  family  moved 
when  she  was  ten  years  of  age  to  Kentucky,  and 
Rosa  was  placed  in  the  noted  seminary  of  Bishop 
Smith,  a  school  located  in  Lexington.  At  the  age 
of  seventeen  Miss  Vertner  married  Claud  M. 
Johnson,  a  manly  gentleman  of  considerable  for 
tune.  Her  life  was  then  spent  in  a  delightful 
manner:  in  summer  with  her  adopted  mother  in 
Lexington,  and  in  winter  at  her  husband's  planta 
tion  in  Louisiana.  She  became  the  mother  of  six 
children,  two  of  whom  died  young. 

The  poem  "  Angel  Watchers  "  beautifully  ex 
presses  the  mother  pain  of  these  separations.  Mrs. 
Johnson  first  became  a  contributor  to  "  The  Louis 
ville  Journal  "  under  the  name  of  "  Rosa,"  and 
the  greater  number  of  her  poems  were  published 
here,  though  she  contributed  also  to  the  "  Home 
Journal "  and  many  other  magazines.  The  first 
volume  of  her  poems  was  published  in  1857  in 
Boston.  Of  this  collection  the  editor  of  "  The 
Louisville  Journal"  said:  "  In  the  blooming  field 
of  modern  poetry  we  really  know  not  where  to 
look  for  productions  at  once  so  full  of  merit  and 
so  free  from  defect." 

Mary  Forrest  says :  "  Subordinate  to  the  literary 
quality  of  her  productions,  but  more  striking  to 
the  superficial  eye,  is  the  marvelous  wealth  and 


42  ROSA    VERTNER   JOHNSON 

delicacy  of  her  fancy.  The  fertility  of  her  con 
ception  seems  positively  inexhaustible." 

In  "  The  First  Eclipse  "  and  "  The  Frozen 
Ship  "  she  essayed  the  higher  types  of  thought 
and  imagination,  and  here  she  met  with  great  suc 
cess.  In  "  Women  of  the  South  "  we  find  these 
words  concerning  Mrs.  Johnson,  who,  after  the 
death  of  her  first  husband,  became  Mrs.  Jeffreys: 
"  In  many  of  the  works  of  this  writer  we  see 
glimpses  of  a  substratum  of  passionate  power, 
which  has  never  been  stirred.  A  deep  fountain 
was  troubled  at  the  death  of  her  children,  but 
troubled  by  an  angel,  and  her  songs  grew  only 
more  low  and  tender.  '  Hasheesh  Visions '  does 
not  lack  impassioned  element,  but  it  has  the  crazy 
play  and  prodigality  of  words  evolved  from  the 
heights  of  the  brain  and  not  from  the  depths  of 
feeling." 

Her  best  production  in  fiction  is  "  Woodburn," 
which  appeared  in  1864.  There  is  not  the  least 
effort  in  this  book  after  what  is  called  fine  writing. 
The  whole  tale  of  love  and  hate,  of  joy  and  woe, 
is  told  with  the  simplicity  and  childlike  earnestness 
which  seem  to  characterize  the  nature  of  little 
"  Amy  Percy  "  herself,  the  youthful  story-teller. 
It  is  a  description  of  social  Southern  life  before 
the  war,  and  abounds  in  truthful  pictures  of  the 
happy,  easy,  care-free  days  of  that  favored  and 
prosperous  time.  The  frank  cordiality,  the  warm- 


ROSA    7ERTNER    JOHNSON  43 

hearted  hospitality,  the  gay  rides  and  merry  meet 
ings  of  friends  and  neighbors,  are  all  true  delinea 
tions  of  that  happiest  time  among  the  dwellers 
in  the  "  Land  of  the  Mocking-bird  and  Mag 
nolia."  Under  the  name  of  Mrs.  Rosa  Vertner 
Jeffreys  this  writer  was  best  known  in  the  later 
years  of  her  life.  She  spent  some  time  with  her 
adopted  mother  in  New  York  City  and  died  in 
1894,  beloved  and  admired  by  all  who  knew  her. 
"  The  Night  Has  Come  "  has  been  called  one  of 
her  poetical  productions. 

THE  NIGHT  HAS  COME 

The  night  has  come  when  I  may  sleep, 

To  dream,  perchance  of  thee — 
And  where  art  thou?   Where  south  winds  sweep 

Along  a  southern  sea. 
Thy  home  a  glorious  tropic  isle 

On  which  the  sun  with  pride 
Doth  smile  as  might  a  sultan  smile 

On  his  Circassian  bride. 

And  where  the  south  wind  gently  stirs 

A  chime  of  fragrant  bells, 
While  come  the  waves  as  worshipers, 

With  rosary  of  shells 
The  altars  on  the  shore  to  wreathe, 

Where,  in  the  twilight  dim, 
Like  nuns,  the  foam-veiled  breakers  breathe 

Their  wild  and  gushing  hymn. 


44  ROSA    FERTNER    JOHNSON 

The  night  has  come,  and  I  will  glide 

O'er  sleep's  hushed  waves  the  while, 
In  dreams  to  wander  by  thy  side 

Through  that  enchanting  isle. 
For,  in  the  dark,  my  fancy  seems 

As  full  of  witching  spells 
As  yon  blue  sky  of  starry  beams 

Or  ocean-depths  of  shells. 

Yet  sometimes  visions  do  becloud 

My  soul  with  such  strange  fears, 
They  wrap  me  like  an  icy  shroud 

And  leave  my  soul  in  tears. 
For  once  me  thought  thy  hand  did  bind 

Upon  my  brow  a  wreath 
In  which  a  viper  was  entwined 

That  stung  me — unto  death. 

And  once  within  a  lotus  cup, 

Which  thou  to  me  didst  bring, 
A  deadly  vampire  folded  up 

Its  cold  and  murky  wing; 
And  springing  from  that  dewy  nest, 

It  drained  life's  azure  rills, 
That  wandered  o'er  my  swelling  breast, 

Like  brooks  through  snow-clad  hills. 

Yet  seemed  it  sweeter  thus  to  die 

There,  in  thy  very  sight, 
Than  see  thee  'neath  that  tropic  sky, 

As  in  my  dreams  last  night. 


ROSA    VERTNER   JOHNSON  45 

For  lo,  within  a  palmy  grove, 

Unto  an  Eastern  maid 
I  heard  thee  whispering  vows  of  love 

Beneath  the  feathery  shade. 

And  stately  as  the  palm  was  she, 

Yet  thrilled  with  thy  wild  words, 
As  its  green  crown  might  shaken  be 

By  many  bright-winged  birds; 
And  'neath  thy  smile,  in  her  dark  eye, 

A  rapturous  light  did  spring, 
As  in  a  lake  soft  shadows  lie, 

Dropped  from  the  rainbow's  wing. 

Some  of  her  other  works  are  "  Poems  by  Rosa," 
and  "  The  Crimson  Hand  and  Marsh,"  a  novel. 


JOHN   PENDLETON    KENNEDY 

1795—1870 

THE  father  of  this  noted  writer  was  from  the 
north  of  Ireland.  He  settled  in  Baltimore  and 
became  a  successful  merchant.  He  married  Miss 
Nancy  Pendleton  of  Martinsburg,  Virginia,  in 
1794,  and  the  next  year  their  son  was  born,  John 
Pendleton  Kennedy.  Even  in  boyhood  he  began 
to  show  a  strong  tendency  for  literature,  and  at 
school,  though  he  studied  all  the  various  branches 
taught,  yet  a  miscellaneous  kind  of  writing  was 
continually  pursued  by  this  ambitious  boy. 

In  1809  his  father  bought  a  cottage  home  in  the 
country  called  "  Shrub-Hill,"  from  which  home 
John  Pendleton  Kennedy  rode  daily  to  Baltimore 
College.  Later  he  studied  law  and  was  admitted 
to  the  bar  in  1816.  However,  the  practice  of  law 
was  distasteful  to  him,  although  he  had  a  great 
admiration  for  lawyers.  Baltimore  was  a  city  of 
much  culture,  and  the  association  with  such  men  as 
Pinckney,  Hoffman,  Poe,  Pierpont  and  Sparks  kept 
alive  his  passion  for  literary  work.  He  was  a 
friend  also  of  Washington  Irving,  and  together, 
on  horseback,  they  traveled  over  western  New 
York.  He  was  elected  to  the  Maryland  Legisla- 

46 


JOHN  PENDLETON  KENNEDY          47 

ture  in  1820,  and  later,  in  1838,  to  Congress.  Dur 
ing  Mr.  Fillmore's  administration  he  was  Secre 
tary  of  the  Navy,  doing  valuable  service  for  the 
government. 

Mr.  Kennedy  married  a  daughter  of  Judge  Ten- 
nant,  of  Baltimore,  but  she  died  soon  after,  and 
his  second  wife  was  a  Miss  Elizabeth  Gray,  with 
whom  he  lived  for  forty-one  very  happy  years.  His 
frequent  visits  to  Virginia  with  his  mother,  which 
were  continued  sometimes  with  his  wife,  and  often 
alone  on  horseback,  gave  him  an  intimate  knowl 
edge  of  the  habits,  life,  hospitality,  manners,  plan 
tations  and  romances  of  Virginia,  the  State 
endeared  to  him  by  many  ties. 

When  his  story,  "  Swallow  Barn,"  appeared, 
there  had  been  few  really  faithful  pictures  of 
Southern  life,  and  the  book  met  with  cordial  re 
ception  both  in  the  North  and  the  South.  Profes 
sor  Link  says:  "  No  historian  can  afford  to  neglect 
the  pages  of  '  Swallow  Barn.'  '  The  demand  for 
this  book  has  been  so  continued  that  G.  P.  Putnam 
&  Sons  brought  out  a  new  edition  in  1895. 

Kennedy  traveled  in  Europe  and  there  became 
acquainted  with  William  Makepeace  Thackeray, 
for  whom  it  is  said  he  wrote  a  chapter  in  "  Vanity 
Fair,"  the  fourth  chapter  of  the  second  volume. 

When  in  America  he  traveled  much  on  horse 
back,  which  gave  him  opportunity  to  meet 
many  of  the  characters  he  afterward  put  in  his 


48          JOHN  PENDLETON  KENNEDY 

novels.  He  was  the  true  and  tried  friend  of  Edgar 
Allan  Poe,  ever  ready  to  help  him  and  ever  be 
lieving  in  his  genius.  Kennedy's  style  of  writing 
follows  closely  that  of  his  friend  Irving. 

His  principal  works  are:  "Swallow  Barn," 
"  Horse-Shoe  Robinson,"  "  Rob  of  the  Bowl," 
"  Red  Book,"  an  anonymous  collection  of  prose 
and  verse;  "Annals  of  Quodlibet,"  "Memoirs 
of  William  Wirt,"  addresses,  and  other  prose 
writings. 

In  "  Swallow  Barn  "  we  find  exquisite  descrip 
tions  of  country  life  in  Virginia  "  as  it  existed," 
Kennedy  writes,  "  in  the  first  quarter  of  the  pres 
ent  century,  the  mellow,  bland,  and  sunny  luxu 
riance  of  the  old-time  society — its  good  fellowship, 
its  hearty  and  constitutional  companionableness, 
the  thriftless  gayety  of  the  people  and  that  over 
flowing  hospitality  which  knew  no  ebb." 

Speaking  of  the  country  homes  in  Virginia  he 
says:  "You  never  know  your  friend  so  well  or 
enjoy  him  so  heartily  in  the  city  as  you  may  in  one 
of  those  large,  bountiful  mansions,  whose  horizon 
is  filled  with  green  fields  and  woodland  slopes  and 
broad  blue  heavens." 

Frank  Merriweth  he  describes:  "A  landed 
proprietor,  with  a  good  house  and  a  host  of  serv 
ants,  is  naturally  a  hospitable  man.  A  guest  is 
one  of  his  daily  wants." 

The  description  of  the  dinner-table  portrays  to 


JOHN  PENDLETON  KENNEDY          49 

perfection   the   abundant   supply  that   graced  the 
hospitable  board. 


The  table  was  furnished  with  a  profusion  of  the  delica 
cies  afforded  by  the  country;  and,  notwithstanding  it  was 
much  more  ample  than  the  accommodation  of  the  guests 
required,  it  seemed  to  be  stored  rather  with  a  reference  to 
its  own  dimensions  than  to  the  number  or  wants  of  those 
who  were  collected  around  it.  At  the  head,  immediately 
under  the  eye  of  our  hostess,  in  the  customary  pride  of 
place,  was  deposited  a  goodly  ham  of  bacon,  rich  in  its  own 
perfections,  as  well  as  in  the  endemic  honors  that  belong 
to  it  in  the  Old  Dominion.  According  to  a  usage  worthy 
of  imitation,  it  was  clothed  in  its  own  dark  skin,  which 
the  imaginative  mistress  of  the  kitchen  had  embellished 
by  carving  into  some  fanciful  figures.  The  opposite  end 
of  the  table  smoked  with  a  huge  roasted  saddle  of  mutton, 
which  seemed,  from  its  trim  and  spruce  air,  ready  to  gal 
lop  off  the  dish.  Between  these  two  extremes  was  scat 
tered  an  enticing  diversity  of  poultry,  prepared  with  many 
savory  adjuncts,  and  especially  that  tropical  luxury,  which 
yet  so  slowly  finds  its  way  northward, — fried  chicken, — 
sworn  brother  to  the  ham,  and  old  Virginia's  standard 
dish.  The  intervening  spaces  displayed  a  profusion  of  the 
products  of  the  garden ;  nor  were  oysters  and  crabs  want 
ing  where  room  allowed ;  and,  where  nothing  else  could 
be  deposited,  as  if  scrupulous  of  showing  a  bare  spot  of 
the  table-cloth,  the  bountiful  forethought  of  Mistress 
Winkle  had  provided  a  choice  selection  of  pickles  of  every 
color  and  kind.  From  the  whole  array  of  the  board  it 
was  obvious  that  abundance  and  variety  were  deemed  no 


50          JOHN  PENDLETON  KENNEDY 

less  essential  to  the  entertainment    than  the  excellence  of 
the  viands." 

The  story  of  old  Lucy  and  her  son  Abe  in 
"  Swallow  Barn  "  is  one  of  exquisite  pathos. 

Abe  was  the  youngest  son  of  old  Lucy.  He  had  noth 
ing  of  the  flat  nose  and  broad  hip  of  his  tribe — 'but  his  face 
was  moulded  with  the  prevailing  characteristics  of  the 
negroes  of  the  West  Indies.  He  had  been  trained  to  the 
work  of  a  blacksmith.  But  a  habit  of  associating  with  the 
most  profligate  menials  belonging  to  the  extensive  commu 
nity  of  Swallow  Barn  and  the  neighboring  estates  cor 
rupted  his  character.  Merriweth,  the  master,  was  strongly 
imbued  with  repugnance  against  disposing  of  any  of  his 
negroes,  but  finally  Abe's  transgressions  became  so  numer 
ous  that  to  save  him  from  a  worse  fate  the  master 
determined  to  ship  him  for  a  while  on  one  of  the  sailing 
vessels  that  frequented  the  harbor.  There  never  was  a 
more  exemplary  domestic  than  the  mother.  Abe  had  al 
ways  lived  in  her  cabin.  Although  she  was  continually 
tormented  with  his  misdeeds  and  did  not  fail  to  reprove 
him  with  habitual  harshness,  still  her  heart  yearned  se 
cretly  toward  him. 

It  was  very  hard  to  convince  the  mind  of  a  mother  of 
the  justice  of  the  sentence  that  deprives  her  of  her  child. 
Lucy  heard  all  of  the  arguments  to  justify  the  necessity 
of  sending  Abe  abroad,  assented  to  it  all,  bowed  her  head, 
as  if  entirely  convinced — and  thought  it  very  hard.  She 
was  told  that  it  was  the  only  expedient  to  save  him  from 
prison.  She  admitted  it,  but  it  was  a  source  of  unuttera 
ble  anguish  to  her,  which  no  kindness  on  the  part  of  the 


JOHN  PENDLETON  KENNEDY           51 

family  could  mitigate,  and  old  Lucy  gave  way  to  pas 
sionate  wailing  of  despair. 

This  burst  of  feeling  had  its  expected  effect  upon  Lucy. 
She  seemed  to  be  suddenly  relieved,  and  was  able  to  ad 
dress  a  few  short  words  of  parting  to  Abe;  then  taking 
from  the  plaits  of  her  bosom  a  small  leather  purse  con 
taining  a  scant  stock  of  silver, — the  hoard  of  past  years, — 
she  put  it  into  the  unresisting  hand  of  Abe.  The  boy 
looked  at  the  faded  bag  for  a  moment,  and  gathering  up 
something  like  a  smile  upon  his  face,  he  forced  the  money 
back  upon  his  mother,  himself  replacing  it  in  the  bosom 
of  her  dress.  "  You  don't  think  I  am  going  to  take  your 
money  with  me!"  said  he.  "I  never  cared  about  the 
best  silver  my  master  ever  had:  no,  nor  for  freedom 
neither.  I  thought  I  was  always  going  to  stay  here  on 
the  plantation.  I  would  rather  have  the  handkerchief  you 
wear  around  your  neck  than  all  the  silver  you  ever 
owned." 

Lucy  took  the  handkerchief  from  her  shoulders,  and 
put  it  in  his  hand.  Abe  drew  it  into  a  loose  knot  about 
his  throat,  then  turned  briskly  round,  shook  hands  with 
the  by-standers,  and,  shouldering  his  chest,  moved  with 
the  boatman  at  a  rapid  pace  toward  the  beach. 

In  a  few  moments  afterwards  he  was  seen  standing  up 
in  the  boat,  as  it  shot  out  from  beneath  the  bank,  and 
waving  his  hand  to  the  dusky  group  he  had  just  left. 

Then  Kennedy  gives  the  account  of  the  ship 
wreck  when  all  perished  save  one  sailor,  who  told 
the  story  of  Abe's  daring  and  heroism  in  trying 
to  save  the  crew  and  vessel. 


52          JOHN  PENDLETON  KENNEDY 

I  might  stop  to  compare  this  act  of  an  humble  and  un 
known  negro,  upon  the  Chesapeake,  with  the  many  similar 
passages  in  the  lives  of  heroes  whose  names  have  been 
preserved  fresh  in  the  verdure  of  history,  and  who  have 
won  their  immortality  upon  less  noble  feats  than  this ;  but 
History  is  a  step-mother,  and  gives  the  bauble  fame  to  her 
own  children,  with  such  favoritism  as  she  lists,  overlook 
ing  many  a  goodly  portion  of  the  family  of  her  husband 
Time.  Still,  it  was  a  gallant  thing,  and  worthy  of  a 
better  chronicler  than  I,  to  see  this  leader  and  his  little 
band — the  children  of  a  despised  stock — swayed  by  a  noble 
emulation  to  relieve  the  distressed;  and,  what  the  fashion 
of  the  world  will  deem  a  higher  glory,  impelled  by  that 
love  of  daring  which  the  romancers  call  chivalry — throw 
ing  themselves  upon  the  unruly  waves  of  winter,  and  fly 
ing,  on  the  wing  of  the  storm,  into  the  profound,  dark 
abyss  of  ocean,  when  all  his  terrors  were  gathering  in 
their  most  hideous  forms;  when  the  spirit  of  ill  shrieked 
in  the  blast,  and  thick  night,  dreary  with  unusual  horrors, 
was  falling  close  around  them;  when  old  mariners  grew 
pale  with  the  thought  of  the  danger,  and  the  wisest  coun 
selled  the  adventurers  against  the  certain  doom  that  hung 
upon  their  path: — I  say,  it  was  a  gallant  sight  to  see  such 
heroism  shining  out  in  an  humble  slave  of  the  Old 
Dominion ! 

Under  the  terrible  grief  for  loss  of  her  son,  the  mind 
of  old  Lucy  gives  way,  and  she  continues  to  look  for 
Abe,  saying  always  to  her  master,  "  I  cannot  give  him  up, 
Massa  Frank,"  and  she  looked  continually  for  him  to 
return. 

One  dark   and  blustering  night  of  winter,   the  third 


JOHN  PENDLETON  KENNEDY          53 

anniversary  of  that  on  which  Abe  had  sailed  upon  his 
desperate  voyage, — for  Lucy  had  noted  the  date,  although 
others  had  not — near  midnight,  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Quarter  were  roused  from  their  respective  cabins  by  loud 
knockings  in  succession  at  their  doors ;  and  when  each  was 
opened,  there  stood  the  decrepit  figure  of  old  Lucy,  who 
was  thus  making  a  circuit  to  invite  her  neighbors,  as  she 
said,  to  her  house. 

"  He  has  come  back!  "  said  Lucy  to  each  one,  as  they 
loosed  their  bolts;  "  he  has  come  back!  I  always  told  you 
he  would  come  back  upon  this  very  night !  Come  and  see 
him!  Come  and  see  him!  Abe  is  waiting  to  see  his 
friends  to-night." 

Either  awed  by  the  superstitious  feeling  that  a  maniac 
inspires  in  the  breasts  of  the  ignorant,  or  incited  by  curi 
osity,  most  of  the  old  negroes  followed  Lucy  to  her  cabin. 
As  they  approached  it,  the  windows  gleamed  with  a  broad 
light,  and  it  was  with  some  strange  sensations  of  terror 
that  they  assembled  at  her  threshold,  where  she  stood  upon 
the  step,  with  her  hand  upon  the  latch.  Before  she  opened 
the  door  to  admit  her  wondering  guests,  she  applied  her 
mouth  to  the  key-hole,  and  said  in  an  audible  whisper, 
"  Abe,  the  people  are  all  ready  to  see  you,  honey!  Don't 
be  frightened, — there's  nobody  will  do  you  harm !  " 

Then,  turning  toward  her  companions,  she  said,  bow 
ing  her  head, — • 

"  Come  in,  good  folks!  There's  plenty  for  you  all. 
Come  in  and  see  how  he  is  grown !  " 

She  now  threw  open  the  door,  and,  followed  by  the 
rest,  entered  the  room.  There  was  a  small  table  set  out, 
covered  with  a  sheet;  and  upon  it  three  or  four  candles 
were  placed  in  bottles  for  candlesticks.  All  the  chairs  she 


54          JOHN  PENDLETON  KENNEDY 

had  were  ranged  around  this  table,  and  a  bright  fire  blazed 
in  the  hearth. 

"  Speak  to  them,  Abe!"  said  the  old  woman,  with  a 
broad  laugh.  "  This  is  Uncle  Jeff,  and  here  is  Dinah,  and 
here  is  Ben," — and  in  this  manner  she  ran  over  the  names 
of  all  present ;  then  continued : 

Sit  down,  you  negroes !  Have  you  no  manners  ?  Sit 
down  and  eat  as  much  as  you  choose;  there  is  plenty  in 
the  house.  Mammy  Lucy  knew  Abe  was  coming;  and 
see  what  a  fine  feast  she  has  made  for  him !  " 

She  now  seated  herself,  and  addressing  an  empty  chair 
beside  her,  as  if  someone  occupied  it,  lavished  upon  the 
imaginary  Abe  a  thousand  expressions  of  solicitude  and 
kindness.  At  length  she  said : 

"  The  poor  boy  is  tired,  for  he  has  not  slept  these  many 
long  nights.  You  must  leave  him  now — he  will  go  to 
bed.  Get  you  gone!  get  you  gone!  you  have  all  eaten 
enough !  " 

Dismayed  and  wrought  upon  by  the  unnatural  aspect  of 
the  scene,  the  party  of  visitors  quitted  the  cabin  almost 
immediately  upon  the  command,  and  the  crazed  old  menial 
was  left  alone  to  indulge  her  sad  communion  with  the 
vision  of  her  fancy. 

Permission  of  G.  P.  Putnam  &  Sons. 


MADAME  OCTAVIA  WALTON  LE  VERT 

1810 — 1877 

GEORGE  WALTON,  the  grandfather  of  Madame 
Le  Vert,  was  a  native  of  Prince  Edward  County, 
Virginia,  but  removed  at  an  early  day  to  Georgia. 
He  was  a  member  of  the  first  Congress  convened 
at  Philadelphia,  was  Governor  of  Georgia,  and 
Judge  of  the  Supreme  Court.  He  was  also  one 
of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence. 
Not  long  before  the  Revolution  he  married  Miss 
Camber,  daughter  of  an  English  nobleman,  to 
whom  the  crown  had  given  large  possessions.  Two 
children,  a  girl  and  boy,  blessed  this  union.  The 
son,  George  Walton,  traveled  much  and  held 
many  honorable  positions  in  Georgia  and  also  in 
Florida.  Octavia  Walton,  his  daughter,  was  born 
at  Belle  Vue,  near  Augusta,  Georgia,  in  1810,  but 
as  her  parents  soon  removed  to  Florida,  her  ear 
liest  memories  are  of  its  orange  trees,  its  flowers, 
and  sunshine,  of  which  she  speaks  in  her  own  beau 
tiful  language.  "  The  orange  and  live  oak  trees, 
shading  the  broad  veranda;  the  fragrant  acacia, 
oleander,  and  cape  jasmine  trees  which  filled  the 
parterre  sloping  along  to  the  sea  beach ;  the  merry 

55 


56  OCTAVIA    WALTON  LE   VERT 

races  with  my  brother  along  the  white  sands, 
while  the  creamy  waves  broke  at  my  feet,  and  the 
delicious  breeze  from  the  gulf  played  in  my  hair; 
rny  pet  mocking-birds  in  the  giant  oak  by  my  win 
dow,  whose  songs  called  me  each  morning  from 
dreamland." 

Amid  the  glories  of  the  warm  Southland  the 
young  girl  absorbed  the  feelings,  thoughts  and 
poetical  tastes  which  are  ever  present  in  all  her 
writings. 

Before  she  was  twelve  years  of  age  she  could 
write  and  converse  in  three  languages  with  facility. 
It  was  a  common  thing  for  her  father  to  receive 
at  his  office  letters  in  French  and  Spanish,  which 
she  would  interpret  with  surprising  ease.  While 
Governor  of  Florida,  her  father  located  the  seat 
of  government  and  at  her  desire  named  it  "  Talla 
hassee." 

A  pleasing  and  never-to-be-forgotten  pleasure 
of  her  life  was  her  meeting  with  Lafayette,  who 
had  been  the  friend  of  her  grandmother.  He 
folded  the  child  to  his  heart,  and  called  her  "  A 
truly  wonderful  child."  She  had  conversed  with 
him,  with  wonderful  correctness,  in  his  own  lan 
guage. 

Octavia  Walton  was  never  placed  at  school 
away  from  home;  both  her  mother  and  grand 
mother  instructed  her,  and  they  were  assisted  by 
private  tutors.  An  old  Scotchman,  a  classic  scholar 


OCTAVIA    WALTON  LE   VERT          57 

and  linguist,  lived  for  years  in  their  home,  and 
Octavia  and  her  brother  studied  under  him. 

After  the  family  moved  to  Mobile,  Octavia, 
in  company  with  her  mother  and  brother,  made 
an  extended  tour  over  the  United  States,  where 
she  was  everywhere  crowned  a  reigning  belle.  She 
met  Washington  Irving  and  began  a  friendship 
which  lasted  during  his  life.  He  corresponded 
with  her,  watched  her  literary  course,  and  received 
her  joyfully  at  "  Sunnyside."  On  the  occasion 
of  her  last  visit,  when  she  was  leaving,  Irving 
said,  tenderly :  "  I  feel  as  if  the  sunshine  was  all 
going  away  with  you,  my  child."  Henry  Clay, 
Calhoun,  and  Webster  were  all  her  personal 
friends. 

Growing  up  under  such  rare  intellectual  influ 
ences,  it  is  not  surprising  that  Miss  Walton  de 
veloped  into  a  most  charming  young  woman.  In 
1836  she  married  Dr.  Henry  Le  Vert  of  Mobile, 
a  man  of  great  moral  worth  and  a  noted  physi 
cian.  His  father  had  come  to  America  with  La 
fayette  as  fleet  surgeon  under  Rochambeau,  and 
was  present  at  the  taking  of  Yorktown.  Dr.  Le 
Vert,  the  son  of  this  noble  ancestry,  was  in  every 
way  worthy  to  be  the  husband  of  the  attractive 
woman  he  married,  and  in  every  way  Madame  Le 
Vert,  as  she  was  now  called,  was  the  willing  co- 
worker  with  the  good  doctor  in  all  of  his  unknown 
charities  and  humane  labors. 


58  OCTAVIA    WALTON  LE   VERT 

Great  sorrow  came  to  Madame  Le  Vert  in  the 
death  of  her  idolized  brother  and  in  that  of  her 
two  children.  For  several  years  prostrated  in  mind 
and  body,  she  lived  in  great  seclusion.  Then,  in 
1853,  she  accepted  an  invitation  to  visit  the  family 
of  the  Duke  of  Rutland,  and  thus  began  the  jour 
neys  through  which  the  world  is  indebted  for  her 
books,  "  Souvenirs  of  Travel."  These  books  are 
made  up  largely  of  letters  to  her  mother,  and  be 
sides  the  instructive  and  truthful  descriptions,  have 
all  the  freshness,  vivacity,  imagery  and  genius  of 
the  writer's  mind  expressed  in  exquisite  English, 
and  likewise  a  simple-hearted,  child-like  "  colour 
de  Rose,"  which  creates  a  work  fascinating  to 
read.  "  The  Way  over  the  Simplon,"  "  The  As 
cent  and  Eruption  of  Vesuvius,"  "  Moonlight  in 
Venice,"  "  The  Golden  and  the  Silver  Illumina 
tions,"  are  some  of  the  many  beautiful  and  graphic 
descriptions. 

Lamertine  said  to  her  after  listening  to  her 
brilliant  description  of  a  tour  in  Spain:  "  Ma 
dame,  you  are  a  natural  improvisatrice." 

Her  translation,  printed  in  "  The  Mobile  Regis 
ter,"  of  "  The  Pope  and  the  Congress  "  was  pro 
nounced  by  French  scholars  to  be  a  most  admirable 
rendering. 

Among  her  literary  works  Madame  Le  Vert 
found  time  to  labor  zealously  in  the  cause  of  pre 
serving  Mount  Vernon.  She  was  one  of  the  first 


OCTAVIA    WALTON  LE   VERT          59 

to  advocate  the  project  and  was  Vice-Regent  of 
the  Association  for  Alabama. 

Her  home  on  Government  Street  in  Mobile  was 
a  plain,  substantial  mansion,  combining  taste,  ele 
gance,  and  comfort.  She  had  an  immense  library 
and  rare  works  of  art.  She  had  remarkable  con 
versational  powers,  and  that  kindness  of  heart 
which  made  her  thoroughly  democratic. 

Between  Madame  Le  Vert  and  Fredrika 
Bremer  there  existed  a  pure  and  continued  friend 
ship.  A  gentleman  friend  paid  her  this  greatest 
of  all  compliments:  "I  defy  anybody  to  spend 
an  hour  in  her  company  without  being  a  wiser  and 
a  better  man." 

Madame  Le  Vert  died  in  1877.  Her  books 
are  practically  out  of  print,  but  those  who  possess 
copies  of  them  feel  that  they  are  treasures.  From 
the  second  volume  of  "  Souvenirs  of  Travel,"  pub 
lished  by  Derby  &  Jackson,  New  York,  in  1859, 
we  take  the  following  selections : 

In  describing  her  visit  to  St.  Peter's,  Madame 
Le  Vert  says : 

Driving  rapidly  to  the  hotel,  we  quickly  dined,  and  re 
turned  to  St.  Peter's  just  at  twilight.  In  the  choral  chapel 
they  were  singing  the  Miserere.  Seating  ourselves  by  the 
open  door,  a  perfect  flood  of  melody  swept  over  us,  swell 
ing  and  seeming  to  linger  long  beneath  the  mighty  dome 
and  around  the  lofty  arches.  When  the  music  ceased,  a 
procession  of  cardinals,  bishops,  and  priests  moved  slowly 


60  OCTAVIA    WALTON  LE   VERT 

up  the  aisle  to  the  grand  altar,  which  they  washed  with 
wine,  chanting  in  a  solemn  manner  during  the  time.  The 
darkness  was  intense,  save  where  the  monks  held  lamps  in 
their  hands.  The  crosses  were  all  wrapped  in  black,  the 
pictures  veiled.  At  intervals  a  wild  and  plaintive  cry 
would  break  the  monotony  of  the  chant,  an£  increase  the 
strange  and  awe-inspiring  mystery  of  the  scene. 

One  by  one  the  lamp-holders  vanished,  and  the  throng 
departed,  leaving  only  a  few  kneeling  figures  before  the 
great  altar,  who  appeared  earnestly  and  deeply  absorbed  in 
their  devotions. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  holy  calm  which  fell 
upon  my  soul  as  I  sat  within  that  dim  and  silent  church. 
The  very  air  seemed  filled  with  beautiful  spirits,  who  were 
weaving  around  me  a  spell  of  enchantment,  and  bearing 
me  far  away  from  the  present  into  a  glorious  world  of  the 
future.  I  felt  as  though  I  had  lost  my  own  identity,  when 
hurried  voices  approached  me.  "Where  have  you  been? 
Where  have  you  hidden  yourself  ?  "  were  the  eager  words 
addressed  to  me;  and  thus  returning  to  the  actualities  of 
life  we  left  St.  Peter's  and  drove  to  the  Trinita  dei  Pelli- 
grini  to  see  the  noble  Roman  ladies  wash  the  feet  of  the 
pilgrims  and  wait  upon  them  at  the  table.  The  hospital 
is  divided  into  two  departments.  They  not  only  wash  their 
feet,  serve  them  with  food  at  the  table,  but  with  their 
own  jeweled  hands  put  the  female  pilgrims  carefully  into 
comfortable  beds,  where  they  at  least  enjoy  one  night's 
luxurious  repose.  Although  it  strikes  one  as  an  ostenta 
tion  of  charity,  or,  rather,  a  parade  of  the  virtue  for  public 
admiration,  still  many  miserable  beings  were  made  happy 


OCTAVIA    WALTON  LE   VERT          61 

by  it,  and  cheered  for  a  few  hours  of  their  weary  pil 
grimage. 

FAREWELL  TO  VENICE 

It  was  past  ten  o'clock.  Still  we  lingered  on  the  bal 
cony,  thinking,  in  truth,  it  was  wronging  such  a  night  to 
sleep.  At  length  we  called  Antonio,  our  family  gondolier, 
and  told  him  to  bring  out  the  gondola  from  its  haven, 
where  it  lay  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  ducal  palace.  In  a 
few  moments  it  glided  to  the  steps,  the  black  cabin  was 
removed,  so  there  was  no  covering  between  us  and  the 
sky.  We  were  soon  floating  along  the  broad  laguna,  lean 
ing  back  upon  the  soft  cushions  and  luxuriating  in  the 
matchless  beauty  of  the  scene.  Three  wonderful  pictures 
have  I  seen  in  Italy,  which  will  hang  forever  on  the 
"  walls  of  memory."  One  was  the  illumination  of  St. 
Peter's,  another  the  Niagara-like  cataract  of  fire  pouring 
from  the  crater  of  Vesuvius,  and  the  third  is  moonlight  in 
Venice.  There  is  a  glory  about  the  moonlight  here  never 
attending  it  elsewhere;  the  smooth  sheets  of  water  receive 
its  beams  as  though  they  were  immense  mirrors,  and  thence 
reflecting  them  upward,  fill  the  atmosphere  with  a  light 
of  such  dazzling  brightness  we  constantly  exclaimed, 
"This  cannot  be  night!"  It  seemed  a  mingling  of  the 
soft  tints  of  the  early  morning  with  the  tender  radiance 
of  the  twilight. 

Along  the  piazza  of  San  Marco  were  multitudes  of 
lamps,  their  rays  piercing  the  still  waters  as  though  they 
were  arrows  of  light.  Every  object  was  softened  and 
rounded  by  the  moonbeams,  and  its  shadow  singularly  dis 
tinct  in  the  water  below.  Thus  there  appeared  two  cities, 
one  above  and  another  below  the  Grand  Canal,  each  with 


62  OCTAVIA    WALTON  LE   VERT 

its  winged  lion.  From  the  open  window  of  a  palace 
came  the  sound  of  merry  dancing  music,  while  beneath 
another  was  a  gondola  with  serenaders.  We  made  the 
entire  voyage  through  the  streets  of  Venice,  passing  under 
the  "  Bridge  of  Sighs,"  which  for  a  moment  shut  out 
the  moonlight  completely,  then  we  glided  by  the  palace  of 
the  Foscari,  and  did  not  wonder  the  sad  Jacopo  was  will 
ing  to  endure  even  torture  that  he  might  look  upon  it 
again ;  we  lingered  for  a  while  beneath  the  marble-cased 
arch  of  the  Rialto,  and  saw  the  house  of  Shylock  and  the 
home  of  Othello — thus,  "  slowly  gliding  over,"  we  passed 
all  the  landmarks  of  historic  and  poetic  interest.  ''  To 
morrow  we  part  with  Italy,"  I  murmured,  as  we  went 
for  the  last  time  about  the  radiant  and  moon-lighted  city, 
and  a  deep  regret  welled  up  from  the  fountain  of  my 
heart.  One  must  be  insensible  to  the  glories  of  the  past 
and  to  the  charms  of  the  present  not  to  love  Italy. 

Earth,  sky  and  air  possess  here  a  beauty  unknown  to 
other  climes.  Every  city  has  some  treasure  of  painting, 
sculpture  or  science.  Every  river,  vale  and  mountain  has 
its  poetic  or  historic  legend. 


PAUL   HAMILTON   HAYNE 

1830 — 1886 

THIS  "  Poet  Laureate  of  the  South,"  as  he  is 
called,  was  born  January  ist,  1830,  in  Charles 
ton,  South  Carolina.  Upon  the  death  of  his 
father,  Lieutenant  P.  H.  Hayne,  of  the  United 
States  Navy,  Paul,  at  an  early  age,  was  placed  un 
der  the  loving  care  of  his  uncle,  Robert  Young 
Hayne,  who  was  at  one  time  Governor  of  South 
Carolina,  and  a  friend  of  Daniel  Webster. 

The  Hayne  family  was  one  of  much  culture 
and  refinement,  and  before  the  Civil  War  pos 
sessed  all  the  comforts  wealth  could  give,  and 
so  Paul  enjoyed  all  the  advantages  accruing  from 
such  conditions.  He  was  educated  at  the  Univer 
sity  of  South  Carolina,  from  which  he  was  grad 
uated  at  the  age  of  twenty-two. 

From  his  much-loved  mother  he  inherited  rare 
taste  for  literary  study,  and  also  a  poetical  turn 
of  mind.  These  traits  were  early  fostered  by 
reading  Shakespeare  and  other  great  writers. 

In  1853,  from  among  a  number  of  literary 
gentlemen  who  often  gathered  at  the  dinners 
given  by  William  Gilmore  Simms,  young  Hayne 

63 


64  PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

was  selected  as  editor  of  "  Russell's  Magazine," 
a  literary  enterprise  fostered  for  some  time  by 
many  brilliant  writers.  Hayne  was  afterwards 
connected  with  the  "  Charleston  Literary  Messen 
ger,"  "  The  Southern  Opinion,"  and  several  other 
journals.  But  "  poetry  was  his  destiny,"  and  be 
fore  1860  he  had  published  three  volumes  of 
verse.  He  was  married  to  Miss  Mary  Middleton 
Michel  of  Charleston.  It  was  the  blessed  fortune 
of  this  poet,  as  it  was  the  fortune  of  Lanier  and  of 
Timrod,  to  find  continual  support  and  encourage 
ment  in  his  wife's  appreciation.  Margaret  J. 
Preston  says:  "No  poet  was  more  blessed  in  a 
wife,  who  by  self-renunciation,  exquisite  sympathy, 
positive  material  help,  and  bright  hopefulness, 
made  endurable  the  losses  and  trials  that  crowded 
into  the  life  of  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne."  In  many 
of  his  poems  is  this  wife  gratefully  remembered, 
especially  in  "  The  Bonny  Brown  Hand." 

Oh,  drearily,  how  drearily,  the  sombre  eve  comes  down ! 
And  wearily,  how  wearily,  the  seaward  breezes  blow! 
But  place  your  little  hand   in   mine — so   dainty,   yet  so 

brown ! 

For  household  toil  hath  worn  away  its  rosy  tinted  snow: 
But  I  fold  it,  wife,  the  nearer, 
And  I  feel,  my  love,  'tis  dearer 
Than  all  dear  things  of  earth, 
As  I  watch  the  pensive  gloaming, 
And  my  wild  thoughts  cease  from  roaming, 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE  65 

And  bird-like  furl  their  pinions  close  beside  our  peaceful 
hearth : 

Then  rest  your  little  hand  in  mine,  while  twilight  shim 
mers  down, — 

That  little  hand,  that  fervent  hand,  that  hand  of  bonny 
brown — 

That  hand  that  holds  an  honest  heart  and  rules  a  happy 
hearth. 

Oh,  merrily,  how  merrily,  our  children's  voices  rise! 
And  cheerily,  how  cheerily,  their  tiny  footsteps  fall ! 
But,  hand,  you  must  not  stir  awhile,  for  there  our  nes 
tling  lies, 

Snug  in  the  cradle  at  your  side,  the  loveliest  far  of  all ; 
And  she  looks  so  arch  and  airy, 
So  softly  pure  a  fairy, — 
She  scarce  seems  bound  to  earth ; 
And  her  dimple  mouth  keeps  smiling, 
As  at  some  child  fay's  beguiling, 
Who  flies  from  Ariel  realms  to  light  her  slumbers  on  the 

hearth. 
Ha,  little  hand,  you  yearn  to  move,  and  smooth  the  bright 

locks  down ! 
But,    little  hand, — but,   trembling   hand, — but,   hand   of 

bonny  brown, 
Stay,  stay  with  me ! — she  will  not  flee,  our  birdling  on  the 

hearth. 

Oh,  flittingly,  how  flittingly,  the  parlor  shadows  thrill, 
As  wittingly,  half  wittingly,  they  seem  to  pulse  and  pass! 
And   solemn    sounds   are  on   the   wind   that   sweeps   the 
haunted  hill, 


66  PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

And  murmurs  of  a  ghostly  breath  from  out  the  grave 

yard  grass. 

Let  me  feel  your  glowing  fingers 
In  a  clasp  that  warms  and  lingers 
With  the  full,  fond  lover  of  earth, 
Till  the  joy  of  love's  completeness 
In  this  flush  of  fireside  sweetness, 
Shall  brim  our  hearts  with  spirit-wine,  outpoured  beside 

the  hearth. 
So  steal  your  little  hand  in  mine,  while  twilight  falters 

down, — ' 
That  little  hand,  that  fervent  hand,  that  hand  of  bonny 

brown, — 
The  hand  which  points  the  path  to  heaven,  yet  makes  a 

heaven  of  earth. 

Life  did  not  always  run  in  pleasant  lines  for 
Paul  Hamilton  Hayne.  During  the  Civil  War 
his  beautiful  home  in  Charleston,  his  library  and 
nearly  all  the  heirlooms  of  his  family  were  de 
stroyed  when  that  city  was  bombarded. 

Mrs.  Preston  says :  "  Even  the  few  valuables, 
such  as  old  silver,  which  he  rescued  from  the 
flames  and  had  placed  in  a  bank  in  Columbus  for 
safekeeping,  were  swept  away  in  the  famous 
'  March  to  the  Sea,'  and  nothing  was  left  the 
homeless,  ruined  man,  after  the  war,  but  exile 
among  the  '  Pine  Barrens  '  of  Georgia.  There  he 
established  himself,  in  utter  seclusion,  in  a  veri 
table  cottage,  or  rather  shanty,  designated  at  first 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE  67 

as  '  Hayne's  Roost,'  behind  whose  screen  of  vines, 
among  peaches  and  melons,  and  strawberries  of 
his  own  raising,  he  fought  the  fight  of  life  with 
uncomplaining  bravery,  and  persisted  in  being 
happy." 

Maurice  Thompson  says:  "The  poet,  Hayne, 
secured  eighteen  acres  of  poor  pine  land  a  few 
miles  from  Augusta,  Georgia.  There  he  built  of 
upright  boards,  a  story  and  a  half  cottage,  rough, 
poorly  jointed  and  roofed  with  clapboards.  It 
was  just  such  a  house  as  one  sees  occupied  by 
trackmen's  families  along  the  railroad.  Here,  at 
'  Copse  Hill,'  as  this  home  was  afterwards  called, 
upon  a  desk  fashioned  out  of  a  rude  bench  left 
by  the  carpenters,  Hayne  wrote  all  his  most  nota 
ble  poems.  He  never  gave  up  his  love  for  poesy 
and  song,  and  fought  poverty  alone  with  his  facile 
pen.  .  .  .  Hayne  is,  perhaps,  the  only  poet 
in  America  who  ever  dared  to  depend  solely  upon 
poetry  for  his  income,  and  no  right-minded  man 
can  go  to  that  lonely  cottage  on  the  poor  brush- 
covered  hill  in  Georgia  and  fail  to  feel  how  much 
courage  it  required  to  live  there  as  Hayne  lived." 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  loved  the  forest  tree, 
especially  the  Southern  pine,  which  he  has  immor 
talized  in  verse.  "  He  made  the  melancholy 
meanings  of  the  Georgia  pine  sob  through  his 
poems,"  as,  for  example,  "  The  Voice  of  the 
Pines,"  "  Aspect  of  the  Pine,"  "  The  Dryad  of  the 


68  PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

Pines,"  and  "  In  the  Pine  Barrens."  "  Under  the 
Pine  "  was  written  about  a  pine  tree  at  whose  base 
Henry  Timrod,  the  South  Carolina  poet,  sat  and 
rested  often  during  the  last  visit  he  made  to 
Hayne,  a  short  time  before  Timrod's  death.  The 
two  poets  had  been  schoolmates  in  youth,  and  life 
long  friends,  and  each  had  generously  appreciated 
the  other's  poetical  genius.  One  of  the  finest  bio 
graphical  sketches  written  is  the  one  Hayne  wrote 
for  the  published  edition  of  Timrod's  poems. 

When  Hayne  was  editor  of  "  Russell's  Maga 
zine,"  one  of  its  staunch  supporters  and  welcome 
contributors  was  Henry  Timrod.  In  loving  mem 
ory  of  this  friend,  Hayne  wrote  the  beautiful 
verses  "  Under  the  Pine." 

O  Tree!  hast  thou  no  memory  at  thy  core 

Of  one  who  comes  no  more? 

No  yearning  memory  of  those  scenes  that  were 

So  richly  calm  and  fair, 

When  the  last  rays  of  sunset  shimmering  down, 

Flashed  like  a  royal  crown  ? 

O  Tree !  against  thy  mighty  trunk  he  laid 

His  weary  head ;  thy  shade 

Stole  o'er  him  like  the  first  cool  spell  of  sleep. 

Professor  Link  says  of  Hayne :  "  If  Bryant 
sometimes  served  at  the  altar  of  Nature,  Hayne 
was  her  high  priest,  who  ever  dwelt  amid  her 
glories.  Bryant  was  the  pioneer  of  New  Eng- 


PAUL   HAMILTON  HAYNE  69 

land  poets.  He  was  the  leader  of  an  association 
of  wits  such  as  Dana,  Halleck  and  others.  Even 
Longfellow  followed  him  at  first.  So  Paul  Ham 
ilton  Hayne  was  long  the  literary  high  priest  of 
the  South.  Lanier,  Timrod  and  others  came 
about  him  for  guidance  and  encouragement." 

Again  Professor  Link  writes:  "With  little 
market  for  his  wares  up  North,  and  with  the  South 
too  poor  to  buy,  and  with  friends  urging  him  to 
turn  his  efforts  to  something  else,  Hayne  held  to 
his  first  love,  poesy,  with  the  devotion  of  a  Milton 
dictating  '  Paradise  Lost ' ;  few  men  in  America 
have  been  so  completely  and  fully  a  poet  as 
Hayne.  Longfellow  was  for  a  time  professor  in 
a  college,  Bryant  was  a  newspaper  man,  and 
others,  temporarily  at  least,  have  trained  Pegasus 
along  the  paths  of  different  professions.  Except 
ing  a  few  prose  sketches,  almost  poetry,  and  the 
biography  of  Timrod,  nothing  baser  than  fine- 
beaten  gold  of  poesy  came  from  his  work  shop." 

William  Hayne,  son  of  the  poet,  has  inherited 
much  of  the  father's  genius.  Between  father  and 
son  was  always  a  sweet  companionship,  and  in 
the  exquisite  poem,  "  Will  and  I,"  Hayne  tells 
how  like  two  boys  together  they  filled  their  souls 
with  love  for  Nature. 

We  roam  the  hills  together, 
In  the  golden  summer  weather, 
Will  and  I; 


70  PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

And  the  glowing  sunbeams  bless  us, 
And  the  winds  of  heaven  caress  us, 
As  we  wander  hand  in  hand 
Through  the  blissful  summer  land, 
Will  and  I. 

Where  the  tinkling  brooklet  passes 
Through  the  heart  of  dewy  grasses, 

Will  and  I 

Have  heard  the  mock-bird  singing, 
And  the  field-lark  seen  upspringing 
In  his  happy  flight  afar, 
Like  a  tiny  winged  star, 

Will  and  I. 

Amid  cool  forest  closes 

We  have  plucked  the  wild-wood  roses, 

Will  and  I, 

And  have  twined,  with  tender  duty, 
Sweet  wreaths  to  crown  the  beauty 
Of  the  purest  brows  that  shine 
With  a  mother-love  divine, 

Will  and  I. 

Ah!  thus  we  roam  together 
Through  the  golden  summer  weather, 

Will  and  I; 

While  the  glowing  sunbeams  bless  us, 
And  the  winds  of  heaven  caress  us — 
As  we  wander  hand  in  hand 
O'er  the  blissful  summer  land, 

Will  and  I. 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE  71 

Mrs.  Preston  says  of  Hayne :  "  He  had  the 
(advantage  of  quite  a  distinguished  appearance, 
was  slightly  built,  and  of  medium  height,  with  a 
lithe,  graceful  figure,  a  fine,  oval  face,  with  starry, 
magnificent  eyes  that  glowed  with  responsive  sym 
pathy.  He  had  abundant  dark  hair  thrown  back 
from  a  high  forehead,  and  his  manner  was  urbane 
and  courteous  to  a  high  degree." 

The  poet  had  never,  even  in  younger  days,  been 
strong  physically,  and  gradually,  as  he  toiled  at 
Copse  Hill,  he  became  fully  aware  that  the  end 
was  drawing  near.  Like  the  swan  in  her  dying 
song,  some  of  Hayne's  most  beautiful  verses  were 
his  late  ones,  when  he  felt  the  hand  of  Death  close 
by,  and  even  to  the  end  love  for  Nature  throbbed 
in  every  line. 

I  pray  you  when  the  shadow  of  death  comes  down, 

Oh !  lay  me  close  to  Nature's  pulses  deep, 

Whether  her  breast  with  autumn's  tints  be  brown, 

Or  bright  with  summer,  or  hale  winter's  crown 

Press  on  her  brows  in  sleep; 

Lo,  nigh  the  dawn  of  some  new  marvelous  birth, 

I'd  look  to  heaven,  still  clasped  in  arms  of  earth. 

Of  death  Hayne  could  say  in  his  last  poem: 

But  I,  earth's  madness  above, 
In  a  kingdom  of  stormless  breath — 
I  gaze  on  the  glory  of  love 
In  the  unveiled  face  of  Death. 


72  PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

Hayne  passed  away  early  in  July,  1886,  hon 
ored  and  beloved  for  the  nobility  and  the  purity 
of  his  character,  as  well  as  for  his  splendid  genius. 
For  a  while  his  wife  and  son  Will  "  kept  vigil  at 
Copse  Hill,"  then  the  poet's  wife  joined  her  be 
loved  husband. 

Among  the  published  works  of  Hayne  are 
"  Sonnets,"  "  Avolio,"  "  Lyrics,"  "  Mountain 
Lovers,"  "  Life  of  Robert  T.  Hayne,"  also  of 
Hugh  Swinton  Legare,  and  Henry  Timrod. 

THE  VOICE  IN  THE  PINES 

The  morn  is  softly  beautiful  and  still, 
Its  light  fair  clouds  in  pencilled  gold  and  gray 
Pause  motionless  above  the  pine-grown  hill, 
Where  the  pines,  tranced  as  by  a  wizard's  will, 
Uprise  as  mute  and  motionless  as  they! 

Yea!  mute  and  moveless;  not  one  flickering  spray 
Flashed  into  sunlight,  not  a  gaunt  bough  stirred ; 
Yet,  if  wooed  hence  beneath  those  pines  to  stray, 
We  catch  a  faint,  thin  murmur  far  away, 
A  bodiless  voice,  by  grosser  ears  unheard. 

I 

What  voice  is  this?  what  low  and  solemn  tone, 
Which,  though  all  wings  of  all  the  winds  seem  furled, 
Nor  even  the  zephyr's  fairy  flute  is  blown, 
Makes  thus  forever  its  mysterious  moan 
From  out  the  whispering  pine-tops'  shadowy  world? 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE  73 

Ah!  can  it  be  the  antique  tales  are  true? 
Doth  some  lone  Dryad  haunt  the  breezeless  air, 
Fronting  yon  bright  immitigable  blue, 
And  wildly  breathing  all  her  wild  soul  through 
That  strange  unearthly  music  of  despair? 

Or  can  it  be  that  ages  since,  storm-tossed, 

And  driven  far  inland  from  the  roaring  lea, 

Some  baffled  ocean  spirit,  worn  and  lost, 

Here,  through  dry  summer's  dearth  and  winter's  frost, 

Yearns  for  the  sharp,  sweet  kisses  of  the  sea? 

Whate'er  the  spell,  I  hearken  and  am  dumb, 
Dream-touched,  and  musing  in  the  tranquil  morn ; 
All  woodland  sounds — the  pheasant's  gusty  drum, 
The  mock-bird's  fugue,  the  droning  insects  hum — 
Scarce  heard  for  that  strange  sorrowful  voice  forlorn ! 

Beneath  the  drowsed  sense,  from  deep  to  deep 
Of  spiritual  life  its  mournful  minor  flows, 
Streamlike,  with  pensive  tide,  whose  currents  keep 
Low  murmuring  'twixt  the  bounds  of  grief  and  sleep, 
Yet  locked  for  aye,  from  sleep's  divine  repose. 

By  permission  of  Lothrop  Pub.  Co.,  Boston. 


WILLIAM    GILMORE   SIMMS 
1806 — 1870 

THE  early  life  of  this  writer  was  handicapped 
by  the  loss  of  his  mother,  and  he  was  reared  and 
cared  for  by  his  grandmother.  He  was  born  in 
Charleston,  South  Carolina,  and  at  eight  years  of 
age  began  writing  verses,  which  his  practical 
grandmother  committed  to  the  flames.  Her  de 
sire  was  that  he  should  study  medicine,  and,  as 
soon  as  he  was  old  enough,  the  boy  was  placed  as 
clerk  in  a  drug-store.  But  he  detested  the  idea  of 
medicine,  and  even  the  smell  of  drugs  was  odious 
to  him.  In  his  heart  he  longed  for  study,  and  he 
said:  "  I  had  rather  make  an  absolute  failure  in 
literature  than  a  success  in  something  else."/ 
Nevertheless,  obedient  to  his  grandmother's 
wishes,  he  remained  as  clerk  in  the  drug-store, 
finally  gaining  her  consent  to  study  law,  in  which 
he  was  much  hindered  by  his  lack  of  education. 
However,  he  read  good  literature,  pursued  the 
study  of  law,  and  while  still  a  clerk  wrote  poetry. 
Rich  stores  of  learning  were  amassed  in  passing 
years,  yet  Simms  always  regretted  that  he  had  not, 
in  youth,  been  able  to  receive  the  culture  and  polish 

74 


WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS  75 

which  the  study  of  Latin  and  Gree^is  believed 
to  give  the  mind. 

For  over  forty  years  this  writer  devoted  himself 
exclusively  to  literature.  He  labored  assiduously 
and  threw  off  from  year  to  year,  sometimes  from 
month  to  month,  his  rapid  series  of  fiction,  now 
dealing  with  the  rugged,  original  and  aboriginal 
character  of  early  American  life;  now  depicting 
the  heroic  achievements  of  the  knights  of  elder 
Spain  and  the  crafty  Saracen;  now  amid  the  tropic 
bloom  of  Florida;  now  in  the  abandon  of  South 
western  life;  now  on  the  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground, 
covering  the  whole  range  of  Southern  and  South 
western  life.  He  was,  however,  most  at  home  in 
the  Revolutionary  period  when  war,  and  craft,  and 
treachery,  and  love  and  death  ruled  the  hour;  or 
in  the  older  and  pre-Revolutionary  period,  when 
the  stalwart  and  sturdy  Indian  yet  struggled  with 
bloody  hand  for  his  erstwhile  dominions,  and  yet 
hoped  to  wrest  his  lands  from  the  pale-face. 

Before  1860  this  voluminous  writer  had  pub 
lished  eighteen  volumes  of  verse;  he  also  wrote 
more  than  sixty  other  bound  volumes  of  biog 
raphy,  romance,  and  history. 

As  an  historian  and  critic  he  excels.  Edgar 
Allan  Poe  says  of  him :  "  He  has  more  vigor, 
more  imagination,  more  movement,  and  more  gen 
eral  capacity  than  all  other  novelists  except 
Cooper." 


76  WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS 

Professor  James  Wood  Davidson,  a  later  critic, 
writing  in  1869  declares:  "  In  the  wielding  of 
events,  in  that  sacrificing  of  character  to  situation 
he  stands  unsurpassed."  He  further  says:  "In 
his  day  and  time  some  critics  declared  Simms' 
novels  too  full  of  realism;  yet  to-day  people  ad 
mire  without  protest  the  rough  realism  that  satu 
rates  the  '  Barrack  Room  Ballads  '  of  Kipling." 
Ten  of  his  novels  have  received  German  transla 
tion,  and  his  life  of  Francis  Marion  is  as  attractive 
as  fiction;  also  the  lives  of  John  Smith,  Chevalier 
Bayard  and  General  Greene.  Simms  did  for  South 
Carolina  what  Sir  Walter  Scott  did  for  his  coun 
try  and  Fenimore  Cooper  did  for  New  England. 
His  novels  are  almost  entirely  Southern,  and 
Southern  life  has  been  faithfully  reproduced.  He 
owned  a  fine  plantation  near  Midway,  South  Caro 
lina,  called  "  Woodlands."  A  bronze  bust  of  him 
was  unveiled  at  Pine  Garden,  Charleston,  in  1879, 
and  his  memory  is  cherished  tenderly  in  his  birth 
place. 

William  Gilmore  Simms  had  little  love  for  the 
profession  of  law;  his  heart  was  in  literature. 
When  he  abandoned  his  practice,  he  began  the 
editorship  of  "  The  Tablet,  or  Southern  Monthly 
Literary  Gazette,"  a  sixty-four-page  magazine. 
It  proved  to  be  an  unprofitable  enterprise  and  ran 
only  about  a  year.  He  then  undertook  the  "  City 
Gazette."  He  opposed  with  all  his  personal  cour 
age  and  mental  powers  the  nullification  movement. 


WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS  77 

The  death  of  his  first  wife,  who  was  a  Miss 
Giles,  of  Charleston,  the  burning  of  his  house, 
the  failure  of  his  literary  ventures,  the  death  of 
his  father  and  grandmother,  all  came  with  crush 
ing  force,  and  a  weaker  man  would  have  been 
utterly  disheartened;  but  William  Gilmore  Simms 
had  the  true  every-day  courage  of  a  soldier  and 
nothing  overcame  it.  Later  he  was  happily  mar 
ried  to  Miss  Chavilette  Roach,  the  daughter  of 
a  well-to-do  planter,  and  one  of  his  earliest 
novels,  "  Guy  Rivers,"  passed  through  several 
editions  and  was  reprinted  in  London.  With 
great  rapidity  he  now  published  volume  after  vol 
ume  of  fiction,  among  them  being  "  The  Par 
tisan,"  "  The  Yemassee,"  "  Mellichampe,"  "  Bor 
der  Beagles,"  "  Katharine  Walton,"  and  "  The 
Scout,"  which  were  much  admired  and  read.  It 
is  said,  by  those  who  wish  to  criticise  adversely, 
that  Simms  is  quite  forgotten  and  his  books  are 
now  unread.  Prof essor  Trent  says :  "  One  might 
perhaps  say  the  same  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  novels, 
and  it  is  certain  that  Cooper  holds  little  of  the 
kingdom  in  which  he  once  reigned  supreme.  Tales 
of  adventure  with  historical  basis  have  given  way, 
for  the  time,  to  novels  of  passion."  So  rapidly 
did  Simms  cover  the  romance,  the  history,  the  tra 
ditions  of  the  South  with  his  fiction  that  "  about 
fifty  volumes,"  says  Professor  Trent,  "  would 
hardly  contain  all  he  wrote,  and  while  much  of 
this  work  must  have  been  done  hurriedly,  the 


78  WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS 

South  cannot  afford  to  be  indifferent  to  the  great 
value  of  his  books,  and  his  name  will  always  stand 
high  on  the  list  of  pioneer  American  writers." 

The  plantation  home  of  this  writer,  "  Wood 
lands,"  was  noted  for  its  hospitality  and  many 
distinguished  guests  were  entertained  there.  Scott 
wrote  of  and  immortalized  the  heather  and  Whit- 
tier  the  native  scenery  of  New  England;  so  Simms 
loved  his  home  and  made  beautiful  its  swamps  and 
forests. 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  says:  "  Simms  was  a 
typical  Southerner  of  the  ante-bellum  period." 
The  first  time  he  saw  Simms  was  in  1847,  'n 
Charleston,  at  a  lecture,  when  Simms  was  called 
out  by  the  audience  for  a  talk.  "  I  had,"  says 
Hayne,  "  already  read  some  of  his  novels  and  I 
had  long  desired  to  see  the  author.  He  now  came 
forward,  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life,  tall,  vigorous 
and  symmetrically  formed.  Under  strangely  mo 
bile  eyebrows  flashed  a  pair  of  bluish-gray  eyes, 
keen  and  bright  as  steel.  His  mouth,  slightly 
prominent,  especially  in  the  upper  lip,  was  a  won 
derfully  firm  one;  the  massive  jaw  and  chin  might 
have  been  moulded  out  of  iron." 

Simms  was  an  ardent  Secessionist,  and  at  the 
close  of  the  war  he  found  himself,  like  all  Southern 
men,  ruined  financially.  The  death  of  his  beloved 
wife  in  1863  left  him  prostrated  with  grief;  his 
fine  beard  was  gray  and  his  noble  forehead  marked 


WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS  79 

with  care  and  sorrow.  He  died,  beloved  by  his 
children  and  his  large  circle  of  acquaintances,  June 
1 1,  1870.  He  died  as  he  had  lived,  a  noble  Chris 
tian  man,  one  of  the  band  of  Southern  authors 
the  South  must  ever  admire  and  whose  memory 
must  be  perpetuated  from  generation  to  genera 
tion  by  those  who  truly  love  their  native  land. 
With  much  justice,  Simms  has  been  called  the 
"  Cooper  of  the  South." 

The  following  list  comprises  most  of  his  pub 
lished  works: 

"  ^artin,"  "  Faber,"  "  Book  of  My  Lady," 
"Guy  Rivers,"  "The  Yemassee,"  "Partisan," 
"  Mellichampe,"  "Richard  Hurdis,"  "  Palayo," 
"  Carl  Werner  and  other  Tales,"  "  Border 
Beagles,"  "  Confession,  or  the  Blind  Heart," 
"  Beauchampe  (sequel  to  Charlemont) ,"  "Helen 
Halsey,"  "Castle  Dismal,"  "Count  Julian," 
"  Wigwam  and  Cabin,"  "  Katharine  Walton," 
"  Golden  Christmas,"  "  Foragers,"  "  Maroon,  and 
other  Tales,"  "  Utah,"  "  Woodcraft,"  "  Marie  de 
Berniere,"  "  Father  Abbott,"  "  Scout  "  (first  called 
"  Kinsman  "),  "  Charlemont,"  "  Cassique  of  Kia- 
wah,"  and  "  Vasconselas  (tale  of  De  Soto)." 

POEMS  (2  vplumes) 

"Atalantis,"  "  Grouped  Thoughts  and  Scattered 
Fancies,"  "  Lays  of  the  Palmetto,"  "  Southern 


8o  WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS 

Passages  and  Pictures,"  "  Areytos,"  "  Songs  and 
Ballads  of  the  South." 

DRAMAS 

"  Norman   Maurice,"    "  Michael   Bonham,   or 
Fall  of  the  Alamo." 


BIOGRAPHY   AND    HISTORY,    ETC. 

"  Life  of  General  Francis  Marion,"  "  Life  of 
Captain  John  Smith,"  "  Life  of  Chevalier  Bay 
ard,"  "  Geography  of  South  Carolina,"  "  Reviews 
in  Periodicals"  (2  Vols.),  "Life  of  General 
Nathanael  Greene,"  "  History  of  South  Carolina," 
"  South  Carolina  in  the  Revolution,"  "  War 
Poetry  of  the  South,"  and  "  Seven  Dramas  of 
Shakespeare." 

The  following  extract  has  been  taken  from 
"  The  Yemassee,"  a  story  of  the  South  Carolina 
Indians : 

The  district  of  Beaufort,  lying  along  the  Atlantic  coast 
in  the  State  of  South  Carolina,  is  especially  commended 
to  the  regards  of  the  antiquarian  as  the  region  first  dis 
tinguished  in  the  history  of  the  United  States  by  an 
European  settlement.  (We  are  speaking  now  of  au 
thentic  history  only.  We  are  not  ignorant  of  the  claim 
on  behalf  of  the  Northmen  to  discovery  along  the  very 
same  region  fully  five  hundred  years  before  this  period — 


WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS  81 

an  assertion  which  brings  us  back  to  tradition  of  Madoc 
and  his  Welshmen;  the  report  of  the  Northmen  adding 
further,  that  the  language  spoken  was  cognate  with  that 
of  the  Irish,  with  which  they  were  familiar.  For  this 
curious  history  see  the  recently  published  "  Antiquities 
American,"  under  the  editorship  of  Professor  Raf  of 
Copenhagen.) 

Here  a  colony  of  French  Huguenots  was  established  in 
1562  under  the  auspices  of  the  celebrated  Gaspard  de 
Cologni,  Admiral  of  France,  who  in  the  reign  of  Charles 
IX.  conceived  the  necessity  of  such  a  settlement,  with 
the  hope  of  securing  a  sanctuary  for  French  Protestants, 
when  they  should  be  compelled,  as  he  foresaw  they  soon 
would,  by  the  anti-religious  persecutions  of  the  time,  to 
fly  from  their  native  into  foreign  regions.  This  settle 
ment,  however,  proved  unsuccessful;  and  the  events 
which  history  records  of  the  subsequent  effort  of  the 
French  to  establish  colonies  in  the  same  neighborhood, 
while  of  unquestionable  authority,  have  all  the  charm 
of  the  most  delightful  romance. 

It  was  not  till  an  hundred  years  after,  that  the  same 
spot  was  temporarily  settled  by  the  English  under  Sayle, 
who  became  the  first  governor,  as  he  was  the  first  perma 
nent  founder,  of  the  settlement.  The  situation  was  ex 
posed,  however,  to  the  incursions  of  the  Spaniards,  who, 
in  the  meantime,  had  possessed  themselves  of  Florida, 
and  for  a  long  time  after  continued  to  harass  and  prevent 
colonization  in  this  quarter.  But  perseverance  at  length 
triumphed  over  all  these  difficulties,  and  though  Sayle,  for 
further  security,  in  the  infancy  of  this  settlement,  had 
removed  to  the  banks  of  the  Ashley,  other  adventurers, 
little  by  little,  contrived  to  occupy  the  ground  he  had 


82  WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS 

left,  and  in  the  year  seventeen  hundred,  the  birth  of  a 
white  native  child  is  recorded. 

From  the  earliest  period  of  our  acquaintance  with  the 
country  of  which  we  speak,  it  was  in  the  possession  of 
a  powerful  and  gallant  race,  and  their  tributary  tribes, 
known  by  the  general  name  of  Yemassees.  Not  so  numer 
ous,  perhaps  as  many  of  the  neighboring  nations,  they 
nevertheless  commanded  the  respectful  consideration  of 
all.  In  valor  they  made  up  for  any  deficiencies  of  number, 
and  proved  themselves  not  only  sufficiently  strong  to  hold 
out  defiance  to  invasion,  but  were  always  ready  to  an 
ticipate  assault.  Their  promptness  and  valor  in  the  field 
furnished  their  best  securities  against  attack,  while  their 
forward  courage,  elastic  temper,  and  excellent  skill  in  the 
rude  condition  of  their  warfare,  enabled  them  to  subject 
to  their  dominion  most  of  the  tribes  around  them,  many 
of  which  were  equally  numerous  with  their  own.  Like 
the  Romans,  in  this  way  they  strengthened  their  own 
powers  by  a  wise  incorporation  of  the  conquered  with  the 
conquerors;  and  under  the  several  names  of  Huspahs, 
Coosaws,  Comhahees,  Stowoces,  and  Sewees,  the  greater 
strength  of  the  Yemassees  contrived  to  command  so  many 
dependents,  prompted  by  their  movements,  and  almost  en 
tirely  under  their  dictation.  Thus  strengthened,  the  re 
cognition  of  their  power  extended  into  the  remote  in 
terior,  and  they  formed  one  of  the  twenty-eight  aboriginal 
nations  among  which,  at  its  first  settlement  by  the  English, 
the  province  of  Carolina  was  divided. 

A  feeble  colony  of  adventurers  from  a  distant  world 
had  taken  up  its  abode  alongside  of  them.  The  weak 
nesses  of  the  intruder  were,  at  first,  his  only  but  sufficient 
protection  with  the  unsophisticated  savage.  The  white 


WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS  83 

man  had  his  lands  assigned  him,  and  he  trenched  his  fur 
rows  to  receive  the  grain  on  the  banks  of  Indian  waters. 
The  wild  man  looked  on  the  humiliating  labor,  wondering 
as  he  did  so,  but  without  fear  and  never  dreaming  for 
a  moment  of  his  own  approaching  subjection.  Meanwhile 
the  adventurers  grew  daily  more  numerous,  for  their 
friends  and  relatives  soon  followed  them  across  the  ocean. 
They,  too,  had  lands  assigned  them  in  turn  by  the  im 
provident  savage,  until,  at  length,  we  behold  the  log 
house  of  the  white  man,  rising  up  amid  the  thinned  clump 
of  woodland  foliage,  within  hailing  distance  of  the  squat, 
clay  hovel  of  the  savage. 

The  Yemassees  were  politic  and  brave  .  .  .  They 
looked  with  a  feeling  of  aversion  which  they  yet  strove  to 
conceal  upon  the  approach  of  the  white  man  on  every  side. 
The  thick  groves  disappeared,  the  clear  skies  grew  turbid 
with  the  dense  smokes  rolling  up  in  the  solid  masses  from 
the  burning  herbage. 

Hamlets  grew  into  existence,  as  it  were,  by  magic  under 
their  own  very  eyes,  and  in  sight  of  their  own  town,  for 
the  shelter  of  a  different  people,  and  at  length,  a  common 
sentiment,  not  even  yet  embodied  perhaps  by  its  open  ex 
pression,  even  among  themselves,  prompted  the  Yemassees 
in  a  desire  to  arrest  the  progress  of  a  race  with  which  they 
could  never  hope  to  acquire  any  real  or  lasting  affinity. 
Permission  M.  A.  Donahue,  Chicago. 


JAMES    BARRON    HOPE 
1829—1887 

JAMES  BARRON  HOPE  has  been  called  the  poet 
laureate  of  Virginia.  He  was  born  at  the  resi 
dence  of  his  grandfather,  near  Norfolk.  His 
father,  Wilton  Hope,  of  Bethel,  Elizabeth  City 
County,  was  a  handsome,  gifted  man,  a  landed 
proprietor,  whose  broad  acres  bordered  on  the 
waters  of  the  Hampton  River.  The  poet's  life 
long  devotion  to  his  native  State  came  from  the 
maternal  side,  from  the  Barrons,  those  "  Virginia 
Vikings,"  as  they  were  called.  Jane  Barron,  his 
mother,  was  daughter  of  Commodore  Barron,  who 
commanded  the  Gosport  Navy-Yard  at  the  time 
of  the  birth  of  his  son  James.  James  Barron 
Hope  gained  his  early  education  at  Germantown. 
Later  he  became  a  student  of  Colonel  Cary,  in  the 
noted  Hampton  Academy,  and  here  began  a 
friendship  between  the  distinguished  educator  and 
young  Hope,  a  friendship  which  lasted  long  in 
life. 

In  1847  ne  was  graduated  from  William  and 
Mary  College,  then  becoming  secretary  to  his 
uncle,  Captain  Samuel  Barron,  and  in  1853  he 


JAMES  BARRON  HOPE  85 

made  a  cruise  to  the  West  Indies.  His  beautiful 
poem  "  Cuba,"  sent  at  this  time  to  his  mother  for 
criticism,  now  seems  almost  a  prophecy. 

In  1856  Hope  was  elected  attorney  for  old 
Hampton,  then  the  center  of  a  charming  and  cul 
tivated  society.  Here  he  was  honored  as  a  bard, 
for,  under  the  name  of  "  Henry  Ellen,"  he  had 
contributed  to  various  Southern  publications,  and 
his  poems  in  the  "  Southern  Literary  Messenger  " 
had  attracted  much  gratifying  attention.  His 
friendship  for  John  Reuben  Thompson,  then 
editor  of  this  magazine,  lasted  and  deepened  as 
the  years  rolled  by. 

In  1857  J.  B.  Lippincott  brought  out  "  Leoni 
di  Monota  and  Other  Poems."  The  volume  was 
cordially  received  and  much  praise  was  given  to 
"The  Charge  at  Balaklava,"  which  G.  P.  R. 
James  and  other  critics  have  declared  equal  to 
Tennyson's  "  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade." 

Upon  the  I3th  of  May,  1857,  James  Barren 
Hope  was  chosen  the  poet  for  the  25Oth  anniver 
sary  of  the  English  settlement  of  Jamestown.  His 
poem  for  this  occasion  is  full  of  grandeur  and 
imagery. 

Here  the  red  Canute  on  this  spot,  sat  down, 
His  splendid  forehead  stormy  with  a  frown, 
To  quell,  with  the  wild  lightning  of  his  glance 
The  swift  encroachment  of  the  wave's  advance ; 


86  JAMES  BARRON  HOPE 

To  meet  and  check  the  ruthless  tide  which  rose, 

Crest  after  crest  of  energetic  foes. 

While  high  and  strong  poured  on  each  cruel  wave, 

Until  they  left  his  royalty  in  a  grave; 

But  o'er  this  wild  tumultuous  deluge  glows 

A  vision  fair  as  Heaven  to  saint  e'er  shows; 

A  dove  of  mercy  o'er  the  billows  dark 

Fluttered  awhile,  then  fled  within  God's  ark. 

Had  I  the  power,  I'd  reverently  describe 

That  peerless  maid — the  "  pearl  of  all  her  tribe  " ; 

As  evening  fair,  when  coming  night  and  day 

Contend  together  which  shall  wield  its  sway; 

But,  here  abashed,  my  paltry  fancy  stays; 

For  her,  too  humble  its  most  stately  lays 

A  shade  of  twilight's  softest,  sweetest  gloom — 

The  dusk  of  morning  —  found  a  splendid  tomb 

In  England's  glare;  so  strange,  so  vast,  so  bright 

The  dusk  of  morning  burst  in  splendid  light, 

Which  falleth  through  the  Past's  cathedral  aisles, 

Till  sculptured  Mercy  like  a  seraph  smiles. 

Sad  is  the  story  of  that  maiden's  race, 

Long  driven  from  each  legendary  place 

All  their  expansive  hunting-grounds  are  now 

Torn  by  the  iron  of  Saxon's  plow, 

Which  turns  up  skulls  and  arrow-heads,  and  bones  — 

Their  places  nameless  and  unmarked  by  stones. 

At  the  anniversary  of  the  "  Battle  of  the 
Crater  "  Hope  recited  his  metrical  address  "  Ma- 
hone's  Brigade,"  beginning: 


JAMES  BARRON  HOPE  87 

Your  arms  are  stacked,  your  splendid  colors  furled, 
Your  drums  are  still,  aside  your  trumpets  laid, 
But  your  dumb  muskets  once  spoke  to  the  world  — 
And  the  world  listened  to  Mahone's  Brigade. 

Like  waving  plume  upon  Bellona's  crest, 
Or  comet  in  red  majesty  arrayed, 
Or  Persia's- flame  transported  to  the  West, 
Shall  shine  the  glory  of  Mahone's  Brigade. 

Not  once,  in  all  those  years  so  dark  and  grim, 

Your  columns  from  the  path  of  duty  strayed ; 

No  craven  act  made  your  escutcheon  dim  — 

'Twas  burnished  with  your  blood,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

In  1857  Hope  married  Miss  Annie  Beverly 
Whiting  of  Hampton,  a  woman  of  lovely  person, 
beautiful  character,  and  great  strength  of  pur 
pose. 

In  1 88 1  Congress  chose  him  as  poet  for  the 
Yorktown  Centennial,  and  this  address,  "  Arms 
and  the  Man,"  with  other  sonnets,  was  published 
the  next  year. 

Again  Hope  was  called  upon  to  deliver  a  poem 
at  the  laying  of  the  cornerstone  of  the  monument 
erected  in  Richmond  to  General  Robert  E.  Lee. 
The  cornerstone  was  laid  in  October,  1887,  but 
the  poet's  voice  had  been  stilled  forever,  and  the 
poem  was  read  by  William  Gordon  McCabe. 
This  poem,  "  Memoriae  Sacrum,"  has  been  pro 
nounced  by  many  to  be  Hope's  masterpiece. 


88  JAMES  BARRON  HOPE 

In  his  "  Washington  Memorial  Ode,"  written 
for  the  unveiling  of  Crawford's  statue  of  Wash 
ington,  occur  the  following  fine  lines: 

O  proud  old  Commonwealth!  thy  sacred  name 
Makes  frequent  music  on  the  life  of  Fame! 
And  as  the  Nation,  in  its  onward  march, 
Thunders  beneath  the  Union's  mighty  arch, 
Thine  the  bold  front  which  every7  patriot  sees 
The  stateliest  figure  on  its  massive  frieze. 
O  proud  old  State!  well  may  thy  form  be  grand, 
'Twas  thine  to  give  a  Saviour  to  the  land. 

Besides  poetry  James  Barron  Hope  published 
"Little  Stories  for  Little  People";  a  novel, 
"Madelon";  many  masterly  addresses;  "Vir 
ginia,  Her  Past,  Present  and  Future,"  and  "  The 
Press  and  the  Printer's  Devil." 

During  the  late  years  of  his  life  he  suffered 
from  illness,  but  none  save  those  nearest  to  him 
knew  of  it.  He  was  among  the  first  to  join  the 
Confederate  Army  and  came  out  of  the  war  with 
broken  health  and  ruined  fortune. 

Hope  was  a  little  under  six  feet  in  height, 
slender,  graceful  and  finely  proportioned,  with 
hands  and  feet  of  distinctive  beauty.  In  his  own 
home  he  was  always  at  his  best,  for  he  touched 
with  poetry  the  daily  prose  of  living.  A  hand 
some  monument,  fashioned  from  the  stones  of 
the  State  he  loved  so  well,  has  been  erected  to  his 


JAMES  BARRON  HOPE  89 

memory  in  Elmwood  Cemetery,  Norfolk,  inscribed 
to  the  "  Poet,  Patriot,  Scholar,  Journalist,  and 
Kingly  Virginia  Gentleman." 

BALAKLAVA* 

Spurring  onward,  Captain  Nolan! 

Spurring  furiously  is  seen  — 
And  although  the  road  meanders — 

His  no  heavy  steed  of  Flanders, 
But  one  fit  for  the  commanders 

Of  her  majesty  the  Queen. 

Nolan  halted  where  the  squadrons 

Stood  impatient  of  delay, 
Out  he  drew  his  brief  dispatches, 

Which  their  leader  quickly  snatches. 
At  a  glance  their  meaning  catches  — 

They  are  ordered  to  the  fray! 

All  that  morning  they  had  waited, 

As  their  frowning  faces  showed  ; 
Horses  stamping,  riders  fretting, 

And  their  teeth  together  setting; 
Not  a  single  sword-blade  wetting 

As  the  battle  ebbed  and  flowed. 

Now  the  fevered   spell   is  broken, 
Every  man  feels  twice  as  large, 
Every  heart  is  fiercely  leaping, 

From   copy   in    possession   of   Capt.   M.    B.    Davis,    of   Waco. 
Printed  in  a  Virginia  paper  in  1861. 


90  JAMES  BARRON  HOPE 

As  a  lion  roused  from  sleeping, 
For  they  know  they  will  be  sweeping 
In  a  moment  to  the  charge ! 

Brightly  gleam  six  hundred  sabres, 
And  the  brazen  trumpets  ring; 

Steeds  are  gathered,  spurs  are  driven, 
And  the  heavens  widely  riven 

With  a  mad  shout  upward  given, 
Scaring  vultures  on  the  wing. 

Stern  its  meaning!  was  not  Gallia 
Looking  down  on  Albion's  sons? 

In  each  mind  this  thought  implanted, 
Undismayed  and  all  undaunted, 

By  the  battle-fields  enchanted, 
They  ride  down  upon  the  guns. 

Onward !   On !  the  chargers  trample  ; 

Quicker  falls  each  iron  heel ! 
And  the  headlong  pace  grows  faster; 

Noble  steed  and  noble  master, 
Rushing  on  to  red  disaster, 

Where  the  heavy  cannons  peal! 

In  the  van  rides  Captain  Nolan ; 

Soldier  stout  he  was  and  brave! 
And  his  shining  sabre  flashes, 

As  upon  the  foe  he  dashes; 
God !  his  face  turns  white  as  ashes, 

He  has  ridden  to  his  grave! 


JAMES  BARRON  HOPE  91 

Down  he  fell,  prone  from  his  saddle, 
Without  motion,  without  breath, 

Never  more  a  triumph  to  waken. 
He,  the  very  first  one  taken, 

From  the  bough  so  sorely  shaken, 
In  that  vintage-time  of  Death. 

In  a  moment,  in  a  twinkling, 

He  was  gathered  to  his  rest! 
In  the  time  for  which  he'd  waited, 

With  his  gallant  heart  elated, 
Down  went  Nolan,  decorated 

With  a  death  wound  on  the  breast. 

Comrades  still  are  onward  charging, 

He  is  lying  on  the  sod: 
Onward  still  their  steeds  are  rushing 

Where  the  shot  and  shell  are  crushing; 
From  his  corpse  the  blood  is  gushing, 

And  his  soul  is  with  his  God. 

As  they  spur  on,  what  strange  visions 

Flit  across  each  rider's  brain ! 
Thought  of  maidens  fair,  of  mothers; 

Friends  and  sisters,  wives  and  brothers, 
Blent  with  images  of  others, 

Whom  they  ne'er  shall  see  again. 

Onward,  on  the  squadrons  thunder — 

Knightly  hearts  were  theirs  and  brave, — 
Men  and  horses  without  number 


92  JAMES  BARRON  HOPE 

All  the  furrowed  ground  encumber, — 
Falling  fast  to  their  last  slumber, — 
Bloody  slumber!  bloody  graves! 

Of  that  charge  at  Balaklava — 

In  its  chivalry  sublime — 
Vivid,  grand,  historic  pages 

Shall  descend  to  future  ages; 
Poets,  painters,  hoary  sages 

Shall  record  it  for  all  time. 

Telling  how  those  English  horsemen 
Rode  the  Russian  gunners  down ; 

How  with  ranks  all  thinned  and  shattered ; 
How  with  helmets  hacked  and  battered; 

How  with  sword  arms  blood-bespattered; 
They  won  honor  and  renown. 

'Twas  "  not  war,"  but  it  was  splendid, 
As  a  dream  of  old  romance — 

Thinking  which  their  Gallic  neighbors 
Thrilled  to  watch  them  at  their  labors, 

Hewing  red  graves  with  their  sabres, 
In  that  wonderful  advance. 

.Down  went  many  a  gallant  soldier, 
Down  went  many  a  stout  dragoon; 

Lying  grim,  and  stark,  and  gory, 
On  that  crimson  field  of  glory, 

Leaving  us  a  noble  story 

And  their  white-cliffed  home  a  boon. 


JAMES  BARRON  HOPE  93 

Full  of  hopes  and  aspirations 

Were  their  hearts  at  dawn  of  day; 

Now,  with  forms  all  rent  and  broken, 
Bearing  each  some  frightful  token 

Of  a  scene  ne'er  to  be  spoken, 
In  their  silent  sleep  they  lay. 


Here  a  noble  charger  stiffens ; 

There  his  rider  grasps  the  hilt 
Of  his  sabre  lying  bloody, 

By  his  side,  upon  the  muddy, 
Trampled  ground,  which  darkly  ruddy 

Shows  the  blood  that  he  has  spilt. 


And  to-night  the  moon  shall  shudder 
As  she  looks  down  on  the  moor, 

Where  the  dead  of  hostile  races 

Slumber,  slaughtered  in  their  places; 

All  their  rigid  ghastly  faces 

Spattered  hideously  with  gore. 


And  the  sleepers!  ah,  the  sleepers 
Make  a  Westminster  that  day ; 

'Mid  the  seething  battle's  lava! 

And  each  man  who  fell  shall  have  a 

Proud  inscription — Balaklava — 
Which  shall  never  fade  away. 


94  JAMES  BARRON  HOPE 

CUBA 

O'er  thy  purple  hills,  O  Cuba! 
Through  thy  valleys  of  romance, 
All  thy  glorious  dreams  of  freedom 
Are  but  dreamt  as  in  a  trance. 

Mountain  pass  and  fruitful  valley, 
Mural  town  and  spreading  plain 
Show  the  footstep  of  the  Spaniard, 
In  his  burning  lust  for  gain. 

Since  the  caravel  of  Colon 
Grated  first  upon  thy  strand, 
Everything  about  thee,  Cuba, 
Shews  the  iron  Spanish  hand. 

Hear  that  crash  of  martial  music! 
From  the  plaza  how  it  swells ! 
How  it  trembles  with  the  meaning 
Of  the  story  that  it  tells ! 

Turn  thy  steps  up  to  Altares — 
There  was  done  a  deed  of  shame! 
Hapless  men  were  coldly  butchered, — 
'Tis  a  part  of  Spanish  fame ! 

Wander  now  down  to  the  Punta, 
Lay  thy  hand  upon  thy  throat — 
Thou  wilt  see  a  Spanish  emblem 
In  the  dark  and  grim  garrote. 

In  the  Morro,  in  the  market, 
In  the  shadow,  in  the  sun, 


JAMES  BARRON  HOPE  95 

Thou  wilt  see  the  bearded  Spaniard 
Where  a  gold  piece  may  be  won. 

And  they  fatten  on  thee,  Cuba! 
Gay  soldado — cunning  priest! 
How  these  vultures  flock  and  hover 
On  thy  tortured  breast  to  feast. 

Thou  Prometheus  of  the  ocean ! 

Bound  down, — not  for  what  thou'st  done, 

But  for  fear  thy  social  stature 

Should  start  living  in  the  sun ! 

And  we  give  thee  tears,  O  Cuba! 
And  our  prayers  to  God  uplift, 
That  at  last  the  flame  celestial 
May  come  down  to  thee — a  gift! 


JOHN    ESTEN    COOKE 


183 


886 


THIS  most  popular  author  was  born  in  Win 
chester,  Virginia,  and  his  father  was  John  Rogers 
Cooke,  an  eminent  lawyer  of  Richmond.  John 
Esten  Cooke  left  school  at  sixteen.  Then  he 
studied  law,  practicing  with  his  father  for  about 
four  years,  after  which  he  devoted  himself  to  lit 
erary  work.  Here  he  followed  three  lines,  biog 
raphy,  fiction  and  poetry,  and  he  classes  well  with 
the  novelists  of  our  country.  His  writings  are  not 
so  voluminous  as  Cooper's  and  Simms',  but  he 
ranks  with  them. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  Civil  War  Cooke  en 
listed  and  served  first  as  a  private  in  the  artillery 
and  was  in  almost  all  the  battles  in  Virginia,  most 
of  the  time  serving  as  a  member  of  General  J.  E. 
B.  Stuart's  staff.  At  General  Lee's  surrender  he 
was  inspector-general  of  the  horse  artillery  of 
the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia. 

From  his  experience  it  is  only  natural  that 
Cooke's  stories  should  relate  almost  entirely  to 
Virginia,  its  life,  its  romance,  its  manners  and 
customs. 

At  the  close  of  the  Civil  War  Cooke  returned 
96 


JOHN   ESTEN    COOKE  97 

to  his  home  at  "  Eagle's  Nest "  where,  in  quiet 
and  peace,  with  his  children  and  wife,  he  pursued 
his  writings,  producing  volume  after  volume  of 
intense  and  dramatic  romance.  He  was  cousin  of 
John  Pendleton  Kennedy  of  Baltimore,  and  was 
married  to  Miss  Mary  Page,  one  of  that  distin 
guished  family  in  Virginia. 

His  home  was  beautifully  located,  and  his 
neighbors  were  the  Nelsons,  the  Pages,  the  Ran 
dolphs  and  other  well-known  families. 

John  Esten  Cooke  is  pre-eminently  the  Southern 
novelist  of  the  Civil  War,  and  his  literary  work 
was  done  purely  for  love  of  the  work  and  not  for 
remuneration. 

The  one  of  his  novels  which  had  the  largest 
sale  was  entitled  "  Surry  of  Eagle's  Nest."  It  is 
a  striking  portrayal  of  life  in  the  Old  Dominion, 
and,  as  with  all  Cooke's  fiction,  it  holds  the 
interest  of  the  reader  to  the  very  end.  The  skill 
with  which  all  the  scenes  and  events  are  pictured 
is  truly  wonderful,  and  the  pen  portraits  of  such 
men  as  "  Jeb  "  Stuart,"  "  Stonewall  "  Jackson 
and  others  are  truthful  and  convincing. 

"  Mohun  "  is  a  sequel  to  "  Surry  of  Eagle's 
Nest."  It  is  a  magnificent  drama,  opening  with 
a  cavalry  review  in  June,  1863,  on  the  plains  of 
Culpeper,  and  the  story  ends  in  1865,  when  with 
his  pass  the  paroled  prisoner  went  slowly  across 
Virginia  to  his  home. 


98  JOHN    ESTEN    COOKE 

But  all  was  not  taken.  Honor  was  left  us,  and  the 
angels  at  home.  Hearts  beat  fast  as  gray  uniforms  were 
clasped  in  long  embrace.  Those  angels  at  home  loved  the 
poor  prisoners  better  in  their  dark  days  than  in  their 
bright  ones. 

"  Hilt  to  Hilt  "  is  a  novel  in  which  one  learns 
to  appreciate  the  poetry  and  valor  of  1864,  the 
deeds  of  bravery,  the  tremendous  sacrifice  of  prop 
erty  and  blood,  and  the  destruction  of  social  life 
in  the  South,  such  as  the  author  saw  with  his  own 
eyes. 

"  Fairfax  "  is  a  love  story,  the  scene  of  which 
is  located  in  the  Blue  Ridge  and  the  valley  of  the 
historic  Shenandoah  River.  Many  pages  are  full 
of  pathos,  simple  as  a  child's  life,  yet  deeply 
touching,  as  where  the  child  Connie  dies,  and  the 
boy  sings: 

Oh!  she  was  an  angel, 

Last  year  she  died, 

Toll  the  bell,  a  funeral  knell 

For  my  young  Virginia  bride. 

All  the  novels  of  Cooke  are  replete  with  South 
ern  history  and  the  life  of  the  old  South,  and  they 
should  be  preserved  and  read  for  generations. 

Mr.  Cooke  was  a  man  of  attractive  personal 
appearance,  medium  height,  well  formed,  with  fine 
eyes  and  the  courtly  manner  of  a  Southern  gentle 
man.  He  preferred  a  literary  career  to  all  others, 
and  while  he  was  an  ardent  Southerner,  he  wrote 


JOHN    ESTEN    COOKE  99 

without  bitterness.  His  "  History  of  Virginia  " 
is  one  of  the  most  delightful  of  the  "  Common 
wealth  Series,"  and  is  itself  like  a  beautiful  ro 
mance. 

Many  of  Cooke's  writings  are  scattered  among 
various  papers  and  magazines  and  have  never 
been  collected  and  put  in  book  form,  but  his  pub 
lished  books  are: 

"  The  Virginia  Comedians,"  "  Leather  Stock 
ing  and  Silk,"  "  Surry  of  Eagle's  Nest,"  "  The 
Youth  of  Jefferson,"  "Wearing  the  Gray,"  "  My 
Lady  Pocahontas,"  "  Henry  St.  John,  or  Bonnybel 
Vane,"  "  Mohun,  or  Last  Days  of  Lee  and  his 
Paladins,"  "  Her  Majesty  the  Queen,"  "  Pretty 
Mrs.  Gaston,"  "  Stories  of  the  Old  Dominion," 
"The  Maurice  Mystery,"  "The  Grantley's 
Idea,"  "  Professor  Pressensee,"  "  Virginia  Bo 
hemians,"  "  Hammer  and  Rapier,"  "  Hilt  to 
Hilt,"  "  Life  of  General  Lee,"  "  Stonewall  Jack 
son,"  "  A  Biography  of  Virginia,  a  History  of  the 
People." 

MISS  BONNYBEL 

Vanely  was  one  of  those  old  mansions  whose  walls  still 
stand  in  Virginia,  the  eloquent  memorials  of  other  times, 
and  the  good  old  race  who  filled  the  past  days  with  so 
many  festivals,  and  such  high  revelry. 

The  first  brick  of  the  edifice  had  been  laid  upon  the  lap 
of  a  baby,  afterwards  known  as  Colonel  Vane,  and  passed 
through  his  baby  fingers.  The  life  of  the  mansion  and  the 
owner  thus  commenced  together.  It  was  a  broad,  ram- 


ioo  JOHN    ESTEN    COOKE 

bling  old  house,  perched  on  a  sort  of  upland  which  com 
manded  a  noble  landscape  of  field  and  river;  and  in  front 
of  the  portal,  two  great  oaks  stretched  out  their  gigantic 
arms,  gnarled  and  ancient,  like  guardians  of  the  edifice. 
In  these  as  in  the  hundred  others,  scattered  over  the  un 
dulating  lawn,  and  crowning  every  knoll,  a  thousand 
birds  were  carroling,  and  a  swarm  of  swallows  darted 
backward  and  forward,  circling  around  the  stacks  of  chim 
neys,  and  making  the  air  vocal  with  their  merriment. 

There  was  about  the  odd  old  mansion  an  indefinable  air 
of  comfort  and  repose,  and,  within,  these  characteristics 
were  equally  discernible.  The  old  portraits  ranged  along 
the  hall  in  oaken  frames,  looked  serenely  down  upon  the 
beholder,  and  with  powdered  heads,  and  lace  ruffs,  and 
carefully  arranged  drapery,  seemed  to  extend  a  stately  and 
impressive  welcome.  Sir  Arthur  Vane,  who  fought  for  a 
much  less  worthy  man  at  Marston  Moor,  was  there,  with 
his  flowing  locks  and  peaked  head,  and  wide  collar  of  rich 
Venice  lace,  covering  his  broad  shoulders;  and  Miss  Ma 
ria  Vane,  with  towering  curls,  and  jewel-decorated  fin 
gers,  playing  with  her  lap-dog,  smiling  meanwhile  with 
that  winning  grace  which  made  her  a  toast  in  the  days  of 
her  kinsman  Bolingbroke,  and  Mr.  Addison;  and  more 
than  one  tender  and  delicate  child,  like  violets  or  snow 
drops,  in  the  midst  of  these  sturdy  family  trunks,  or 
blooming  roses,  added  a  finishing  grace  to  the  old  walls — 
that  grace  which  nothing  but  the  forms  of  children  ever 
give.  Deer  antlers,  guns,  an  old  sword  or  two,  and  a 
dozen  London  prints  of  famous  race  horses  completed  the 
adornment  of  the  hall ;  and  from  this  wide  space,  the  plain 
oaken  stairway  ran  up,  and  the  various  doors  opened  to 
the  apartments  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  mansion. 


JOHN   ESTEN    COOKE  101 

On  the  May  morning  we  have  spoken  of,  the  old  house 
was  in  its  glory;  for  the  trees  were  covering  themselves 
densely  with  fresh  green  foliage,  and  the  grounds  were 
carpeted  with  emerald  grass,  studded  with  flowers,  wav 
ing  their  delicate  heads,  and  murmuring  gently  in  the 
soft  spring  breeze  and  the  golden  sunshine.  The  oriole 
swung  from  the  top-most  boughs,  and  poured  his  flood  of 
song  upon  the  air;  the  woodpecker's  bright  wings  flapped 
from  tree  to  tree;  and  a  multitude  of  swamp-sparrows 
flashed  in  and  out  of  the  foliage  and  fruit  blossoms,  or 
circled  joyously  around  the  snowy  fringe-trees  sparkling 
in  the  sunshine.  From  the  distant  fields  and  forests  the 
monotonous  caw  of  the  crows,  winging  their  slow  way 
through  the  blue  sky,  indicated  even  on  the  part  of  these 
ancient  enemies  of  the  corn  field,  joyous  satisfaction  at 
the  incoming  of  the  warm  season  after  the  long  winter; 
and  a  thousand  merry  robins  flew  about,  with  red  breasts 
shaken  by  melodious  chirpings,  and  brilliant  plumage  bur 
nished  by  sunlight. 

Everything  was  bright  with  the  youthful  joy  of  spring, 
and  as  Mr.  St.  John  and  his  friend  dismounted  before  the 
old  mansion,  the  very  walls  upon  which  the  waving 
shadows  of  a  thousand  leaves  were  thrown  seemed  smiling, 
and  prepared  to  greet  them;  the  open  portal  held  imagi 
nary  arms  to  welcome  them. 

Before  this  portal  stood, — its  old  form  basking  pleas 
antly  in  the  sunshine, — the  roomy,  low-swung  family 
chariot,  with  its  four  long-tailed  grays,  as  ancient,  very 
nearly,  as  its  self,  and  showing  by  their  well-conditioned 
forms  and  glossy  manes  the  result  of  tranquil,  easy  living. 
By  their  side  stood  the  old  white-haired  negro  driver,  time 
out  of  mind  the  family  coachman  of  the  Vanes;  and  in 


102  JOHN    ESTEN    CO  ORE 

person  of  this  worthy  African  gentleman  a  similar  mode 
of  living  was  unmistakably  indicated.  Old  Cato  had 
evidently  little  desire  to  be  a  censor ;  sure  of  his  own  high 
position,  and  quite  easy  on  the  subject  of  the  purity  of 
the  family  blood,  he  was  plainly  satisfied  with  his  lot, 
and  had  no  desire  to  change  the  order  of  things.  In  his 
own  opinion  he  was  himself  one  of  the  family — a  portion 
of  the  manor,  a  character  of  respectability  and  importance. 
Old  Cato  greeted  the  young  gentlemen  with  familiar  but 
respectful  courtesy,  and  received  their  cordial  shakes  of 
the  hand  with  evident  pleasure.  The  horses  even  seemed 
to  look  for  personal  greeting,  and  when  the  young  man 
passed  his  hand  over  their  necks,  they  turned  their  intelli 
gent  heads  and  whinnied  gently  in  token  of  recognition. 
Mr.  St.  John  patted  their  coats  familiarly,  calling  them 
by  name,  and  looking  up  to  the  old  man  said,  smiling : 

"  Welcome,  Vanely.  The  month  I've  been  away  seems 
a  whole  century.  After  all,  the  town  is  nothing  like  the 
country,  and  no  other  part  of  it's  like  Vanely." 

"  Suppose  you  look  a  minute  at  the  original,"  said  a 
voice  at  his  elbow.  St.  John  turns  quickly  and  sees  the 
vivacious  Miss  Bonnybel,  decked  out  for  the  evening,  at 
his  side.  "  But  if  I  prefer  the  portrait?  "  he  replies;  "  it 
reminds  me  of  old  times." 

"  When  I  was  a  child,  I  suppose,  sir!  " 
"Yes;  and  when  you  loved  me  more  than  now." 
"Who  said  I  did  not  love  you  now?"  asked  the  girl 
with  coquettish  glance. 
"Do  you?" 

"  Certainly.  I  love  you  dearly — you  and  all  my 
cousins." 


JOHN   ESTEN    COOKE  103 

St.  John  sighed,  and  then  laughed ;  but  said  nothing, 
and  offering  his  arm,  led  the  girl  into  the  sitting-room. 

The  young  girls,  whilst  awaiting  the  appearance  of 
Caesar,  the  violin  player,  from  the  "  quarters,"  amused 
themselves  writing  their  names,  after  a  fashion  very  preva 
lent  in  Virginia,  upon  the  panes  of  the  windows.  For 
this  purpose  they  made  use  of  diamond  rings,  or,  better 
still,  the  long  sharp  pointed  crystals  known  as  "  Virginia 
diamonds." 

With  these  the  gallants  found  no  difficulty  in  inscrib 
ing  the  names  of  their  sweet-hearts,  with  all  the  flourishes 
of  a  writing-master,  on  the  glass,  and  very  soon  the  glit 
tering  tablets  were  scrawled  over  with  Lucies  and  Fan 
nies,  and  a  brilliant  genius  of  the  party  even  executed  some 
fine  profile  portraits. 

Those  names  have  remained  there  for  nearly  a  century, 
and  when,  afterwards,  the  persons  who  traced  them 
looked  with  age-dimmed  eyes  upon  the  lines,  the  dead  day 
rose  again  before  them,  and  its  forms  appeared  once  more, 
laughing  and  joyous,  as  at  Vanely  that  evening.  And 
not  here  only  may  these  memorials  of  another  age  be 
found ;  in  a  hundred  Virginia  houses  they  speak  of  the 
past. 

Yes,  yes,  those  names  on  the  panes  of  Vanely  are  a 
spell!  They  sound  like  a  strange  music,  a  bright  wonder 
in  the  ears  of  their  descendants!  Frail  chronicle!  How 
you  bring  up  the  brilliant  eyes  again,  the  jest  and  the 
glance,  the  joy  and  the  laughter,  the  splendor  and  beauty 
which  flashed  onward,  under  other  skies,  in  old  Virginia, 
dead  to  us  so  long!  As  I  gaze  on  your  surface,  bright 
panes  of  Vanely,  I  fancy  with  what  sparkling  eyes  the 
names  were  traced.  I  see  in  a  dream,  as  it  were,  the  soft 


104  JOHN    ESTEN    COOKE 

white  hand  which  laid  its  cushioned  palm  on  this  glitter 
ing  tablet;  I  see  the  rich  dresses,  the  bending  necks,  the 
fingers  gracefully  inclined  as  the  maidens  leaned  over 
to  write  "  Lucy,"  and  "  Fanny,"  and  "  Nelly,"  "  Frances," 
and  "  Kate  " ;  I  see  the  curls  and  the  powder,  the  fur 
belows  and  flounces,  the  ring  on  the  finger,  the  lace  on 
the  arm, — lace  that  was  yellow  indeed  by  the  snow  it 
enveloped !  I  see  no  less  clearly,  the  forms  of  the  gallants, 
those  worthy  young  fellows  in  ruffles  and  fairtops;  I  see 
all  the  smiles,  and  the  laughter,  and  love.  Oh  beautiful 
figures  of  a  dead  generation!  You  are  only  phantoms. 
You  are  all  gone,  and  your  laces  have  faded  or  are  moth- 
eaten;  you  are  silent  now,  and  still,  and  the  minuet  bows 
no  more,  you  are  dimly  remembered,  the  heroines  of  a 
tale  that  is  told,  you  live  on  a  window  pane  only!  Old 
panes!  it  is  the  human  story  that  I  read  in  you, — the  legend 
of  a  generation,  and  of  all  generations!  For  what  are  the 
records  of  earth  and  its  actors  but  frost  work  on  a  pane, 
or  those  scratches  of  a  diamond  which  a  blow  shatters.  A 
trifle  may  shiver  the  tablet  and  strew  it  in  the  dust. 
There  is  only  one  record,  one  tablet,  where  the  name 
which  is  written  lives  for  ever;  it  is  not  in  this  world, 
'tis  beyond  the  stars. 

"Oh,  there's  Uncle  Caesar!"  cries  Bonnybel,  "and 
we'll  have  a  dance "  ; 

We  pause  a  moment  to  look  on  the  minuet,  to  listen  to 
old  Uncle  Caesar  fiddle,  to  hear  the  long-drawn  music 
wind  its  liquid  cadences  through  mellow  variations,  and 
to  see  the  forms  and  faces  of  the  young  men  and  the 
maidens. 

By  permission  of  G,  W .  Dillingham  Co.,  New  York 
City. 


MRS.  MARY  S.  B.  DANA-SHINDLER 

1810—1883 

BEAUFORT,  South  Carolina,  was  the  birth-place 
of  Mary  Stanly  Bunce  Palmer,  but  while  she  was 
very  young  her  father,  the  Rev.  B.  M.  Palmer,  re 
moved  to  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  and  in  that 
city,  little  Mary,  the  child  of  sweet  songs,  was 
educated  at  the  seminary  of  the  Ramsey  sisters, 
daughters  of  the  historian,  Dr.  David  Ramsey. 

On  account  of  her  delicate  health  Miss  Palmer 
finished  her  studies  in  the  North,  and  while  in 
school  she  became  noted  for  her  poetic  genius. 
Her  graceful  manners  and  sprightly  conversa 
tion  made  her  at  all  times  a  desirable  companion; 
while  her  ready  sympathy  and  thorough  apprecia 
tion  of  the  feelings  of  others  rendered  her  a 
warmly  cherished  friend.  After  leaving  school 
she  returned  to  Charleston  and  became  a  contribu 
tor  to  different  periodicals.  In  1835  she  married 
Mr.  Charles  E.  Dana  of  New  York  City,  where 
they  resided  for  three  years.  Then  Bloomington, 
Iowa,  became  her  home,  but  she  had  not  lived  in 
that  city  long  until  death  took  from  her,  in  two 
short  days,  her  husband  and  their  only  child.  Thus 

105 


io6          MARY  S.  B.  DANA-SHINDLER 

bereft,  it  was  only  natural  that  she  should  again 
return  to  Charleston,  her  childhood  home. 

44  From  early  youth  she  had  written  for  amuse 
ment,  occasionally  contributing  to  various  publica 
tions,  but  now  she  devoted  her  fine  talents  to  the 
task  as  a  regular  occupation,  and,  in  1841,  pub 
lished  that  happy  combination  of  music  and  poetry, 
4  The  Southern  Harp.'  A  similar  volume  soon 
followed  under  the  title  of  '  The  Northern 
Harp.'  Both  of  these  books  received  a  hearty 
welcome,  and  the  combination  of  her  own  pure 
thoughts  with  the  secular  music  familiar  at  that 
time  proved  a  happy  and  popular  union." 

44  The  Parted  Family  and  Other  Poems  "  was 
published  in  1842,  and  contained  such  songs  as 
"  Pass  Under  the  Rod,"  "  Come  Sing  to  Me  of 
Heaven,"  "A  Pilgrim  and  a  Stranger,"  "Shed 
Not  a  Tear,"  and  many  other  beautiful  verses. 
About  the  year  1844  Mrs.  Dana  wrote  "The 
Temperance  Lyre  "  and  published  a  number  of 
short  stories.  She  wrote  several  prose  works, 
including  "  Forecastle  Tom,"  "  The  Young 
Sailor,"  and  "  Charles  Martin,  or  the  Young  Pa 
triot,"  but  her  largest  and  best-known  prose  work 
is  entitled  "  Letters  to  Relatives  and  Friends,", 
and  was  published  in  both  the  United  States  and 
in  England. 

A  great  sorrow  again  filled  the  heart  of  Mrs. 
Dana.  In  1847  death  robbed  her  of  the  sweet 


MARY  S.  B.  DANA-SHINDLER          107 

companionship  of  her  loving  parents.  In  1848 
she  became  the  wife  of  the  Rev.  Robert  D.  Shin- 
dler,  an  Episcopal  clergyman.  In  1868  the  fam 
ily  moved  to  Nacogdoches,  Texas,  where  both 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Shindler  died,  leaving  an  only 
child,  Mr.  Robert  C.  Shindler,  who  still  survives 
them  and  lives  in  that  city. 

PASS  UNDER  THE  ROD 

It  was  the  custom  of  the  Jews  to  select  the  tenth  of 
their  sheep  after  this  manner:  The  lambs  were  separated 
from  their  dams,  and  enclosed  in  a  sheep-cote,  with  only 
the  narrow  way  out ;  the  lambs  were  at  the  entrance.  On 
opening  the  gate,  the  lambs  hastened  to  join  their  dams, 
and  a  man  placed  at  the  entrance,  with  a  rod  dipped  in 
ochre,  touched  every  tenth  lamb,  and  so  marked  it  with 
his  rod,  saying,  "  Let  this  be  holy." — Union  Bible  Dic 
tionary.  ..."  And  I  will  cause  you  to  pass  under  the 
rod  and  I  will  bring  you  into  the  bond  of  the  covenant." 
— Ezekiel. 

I  saw  the  young  bride,  in  her  beauty  and  pride, 

Bedecked  in  her  snowy  array, 
And  the  bright  flush  of  joy  mantled  high  on  her  cheek 

And  the  future  looked  blooming  and  gay; 
And  with  woman's  devotion  she  laid  her  fond  heart 

At  the  shrine  of  idolatrous  love, 
And  she  anchored  her  hopes  to  this  perishing  earth, 

By  the  chain  which  her  tenderness  wove. 
But  I  saw  when  those  heart-strings  were  bleeding  and 
torn, 

And  the  chain  had  been  severed  in  two, 


io8          MARY  S.  B.  DANA-SHINDLER 

She  had  changed  her  white  robes  for  the  sables  of  grief, 

And  her  bloom  for  the  paleness  of  woe ! 
But  the  Healer  was  there,  pouring  balm  on  her  heart 

And  wiping  the  tears  from  her  eyes, 
And  He  strengthened  the  chain  He  had  broken  in  twain, 

And  fastened  it  firm  to  the  skies: 
There  had  whispered  a  voice,  'twas  the  voice  of  her  God, 

"  I  love  thee,  I  love  thee!  PASS  UNDER  THE  ROD!  " 

I  saw  a  young  mother  in  tenderness  bend 

O'er  the  couch  of  her  slumbering  boy, 
And  she  kissed  the  soft  lips,  as  they  murmured  her  name, 

While  the  dreamer  lay  smiling  in  joy. 
Oh !  sweet  as  a  rose-bud  encircled  with  dew, 

When  its  fragrance  is  flung  on  the  air, 
So  fresh  and  so  bright  to  the  mother  he  seemed, 

As  he  lay  in  his  innocence  there! 
But  I  saw  when  she  gazed  on  the  same  lovely  form, 

Pale  as  marble,  and  silent,  and  cold, 
But  paler  and  colder  her  beautiful  boy, 

And  the  tale  of  her  sorrow  was  told ; 
But  the  Healer  was  there,  who  had  smitten  her  heart 

And  taken  her  treasure  away, 
To  allure  her  to  Heaven,  He  has  placed  it  on  high, 

And  the  mourner  will  sweetly  obey. 
There  had  whispered  a  voice,  'twas  the  voice  of  her  God, 

"  I  love  thee,  I  love  thee !  PASS  UNDER  THE  ROD  !  " 

I  saw  when  a  father  and  mother  had  leaned 

On  the  arm  of  a  dear  cherished  son, 
And  the  star  in  the  future  grew  bright  to  their  gaze, 

As  they  saw  the  proud  place  he  had  won ; 


MARY  S.  B.  DANA-SHINDLER  109 

And  the  fast-coming  evening  of  life  promised  fair, 

And  its  pathway  grew  smooth  to  their  feet, 
And  the  star-light  of  love  glimmered  bright  at  the  end, 

And  the  whispers  of  fancy  were  sweet; 
But  I  saw  when  they  stood  bending  low  o'er  the  grave, 

Where  their  heart's  dearest  hope  had  been  laid, 
And  the  star  had  gone  down  in  the  darkness  of  night, 

And  the  joy  from  their  bosoms  had  fled ; 
But  the  Healer  was  there,  and  His  arms  were  around 

And  He  led  them  with  tenderest  care, 
And  He  showed  them  a  star  in  the  bright  upper  world, 

'Twas  their  star  shining  brilliantly  there. 
They  had  each  heard  a  voice,  'twas  the  voice  of  their  God, 

"  I  love  thee,  I  love  thee !  PASS  UNDER  THE  ROD  !  " 


JOEL   CHANDLER    HARRIS 

1848 — 1908 

MIDDLE  Georgia  has  contributed  much  of  the 
brightest  and  most  original  humor  of  the  South. 
Here  native  material  for  fiction  was  early  used 
by  writers  who  saw  the  quaint  habits  and  heard 
the  dialect  of  plantation  life.  "  No  one  of  the 
group  of  original  and  fascinating  writers  of  the 
South  has  been  truer  in  delineation  of  character 
or  more  keenly  alive  to  the  folk-lore,  the  pathos, 
the  human  life  of  the  simple,  hearty,  independent, 
homogeneous  people  of  middle  Georgia  than  Joel 
Chandler  Harris,  who  was  born  in  Putnam 
County,  Georgia." 

Poverty  was  the  first  gift  presented  to  the  boy 
hood  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris,  but  he  was  eager, 
alive  and  watchful  for  opportunities.  A  Mr. 
Turner,  living  near,  on  a  large  plantation,  began 
the  publication  of  a  small  local  paper  called  "  The 
Countryman,"  a  weekly  sheet  somewhat  after  the 
order  of  "  The  Rambler."  In  looking  over  the 
first  issue,  young  Harris  saw  an  advertisement  for 
a  boy  to  work  in  the  editor's  office  and  to  learn 
the  printing  business.  An  application  was  quickly 


JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS  in 

made  for  the  place,  and  here  was  the  lad's  oppor 
tunity,  for  Mr.  Turner  was  wealthy,  had  a  large 
plantation,  and  better  still,  about  three  thousand 
well-selected  books,  of  which  young  Harris  be 
came  a  constant  reader.  This  was  good  soil  in 
which  his  genius  could  grow.  From  among  these 
books,  it  is  said  that  the  first  story  he  read  was 
"  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  the  simple  charm  of 
which  never  was  forgotten  by  him,  even  after  he 
became,  himself,  a  writer  of  beautiful  fiction. 

Mr.  Harris  says  he  likes  stories  that  portray 
"  human  nature,  humble,  fascinating,  plain,  com 
mon  human  nature." 

During  his  life  on  the  plantation,  teeming  with 
slaves,  and  other  interesting  characters,  this  young 
man  Harris  absorbed  every  phase  of  passing 
events,  and  "  his  keen  observation  and  boundless 
sympathies  put  i  him  in  touch  with  every  dog, 
horse,  black  runaway  and  white  deserter,  master 
and  slave." 

It  is  not  strange  that,  under  the  influence  of  this 
library,  and  surrounded  by  the  romance,  the 
pathos  and  beauty  of  the  old  Southern  plantation 
life,  Joel  Chandler  Harris  began  to  write.  At 
first  his  extreme  modesty  induced  him  to  publish 
his  work  under  a  nom  de  plume,  but  later 
kindly  notice  and  the  encouraging  reception  of 
his  articles  induced  him  to  write  regularly,  using 
his  own  name.  This  pleasant  existence  ended,  for, 


ii2  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 

during  the  Civil  war,  after  Sherman's  march 
through  Georgia,  there  was  nothing  left  on  the 
plantation,  and  Harris  went  to  Macon,  where  he 
found  work  on  "  The  Daily  Telegraph  "  of  that 
city,  and  finally  became  owner  of  "  The  Forsyth 
Advertiser."  One  night  he  wrote  the  first  sketch, 
in  "  Legends  of  the  Plantation,"  which  was  the 
beginning  of  "  Uncle  Remus  "  and  the  "  Little 
Boy."  Fame  came  to  him  at  once.  The  true 
secret  of  the  real  value  of  Uncle  Remus'  tales  is 
found  in  the  fact  that  Mr.  Harris  "  had  the  rare 
ability  to  seize  the  heart  of  a  suggestion,  and  make 
a  section  famous  with  a  legend."  It  seems  almost 
impossible  for  late  song  writers,  novelists,  or  his 
torians  to  appreciate  the  nature  or  understand  the 
conditions  of  the  plantation  negro,  but  "  there  is 
no  misrepresentation  in  the  writings  of  Joel  Chan 
dler  Harris,  not  a  word  strikes  a  false  accent,  not 
a  scene  or  incident  is  out  of  keeping  with  the  life 
he  knew  so  thoroughly." 

Quoting  from  Julian  W.  Abernethy:  "The 
strenuous  work  of  reconstruction  called  him,  and 
he  entered  actively  into  the  reviving  journalism 
of  the  South,  finally  becoming  associated  with  the 
"  Atlanta  Constitution,"  as  editor,  which  place  he 
filled  for  twenty-five  years.  Having  retired  from 
active  journalism,  he  now  devoted  his  time  entirely 
to  literature.  His  published  writings  are: 

"  Uncle  Remus,  His  Songs  and  His  Sayings," 


JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS  113 

"  Nights  with  Uncle  Remus,"  "  Uncle  Remus  and 
His  Friends,"  "Max  Mingo,"  "Mr.  Little 
Thimblefinger,"  "  On  the  Plantation,"  "  Daddy 
Jake,  the  Runaway,"  "  Balaam  and  His  Master," 
"  Mr.  Rabbit  at  Home,"  "  The  Story  of 
Aaron,"  "  Sister  Jane,"  "  Free  Joe,"  "  Stories  of 
Georgia,"  "  Aaron  in  the  Wild  Woods,"  "  Tales 
of  the  Home  Folks,"  "  Georgia,  from  the  Invasion 
of  De  Soto  to  Recent  Times,"  "  Evening  Tales," 
"  Stories  of  Home  Folks,"  "  Chronicles  of  Aunt 
Minerva  Ann,"  "  On  the  Wings  of  Occasion," 
"  The  Making  of  a  Statesman." 

The  following  extract  from  the  "  Old  Bascom 
Place,"  shows  the  peculiar  love  of  the  planter  of 
the  Old  South  for  his  country  home  and  how  diffi 
cult  it  was  for  the  aged  Southern  man  to  adjust 
himself  to  the  new  conditions. 

The  crash  came  when  General  Sherman  went  marching 
through  Hillsborough.  The  Bascom  Place,  being  the 
largest  and  the  richest  plantation  in  that  neighborhood, 
suffered  the  worst.  Every  horse,  every  mule,  every  living 
thing  with  hide  and  hoof,  was  driven  off  by  the  Federals, 
and  a  majority  of  the  negroes  went  along  with  the  army. 
It  was  often  said  of  Judge  Bascom  that  he  had  so  many 
negroes  he  didn't  know  them  when  he  met  them  in  the 
big  road,  and  this  was  probably  true.  His  negroes  knew 
him,  and  knew  that  he  was  a  kind  master  in  many  re 
spects,  but  they  had  no  personal  affection  for  him.  They 
were  such  strangers  to  the  Judge  that  they  never  felt 


ii4  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 

justified  in  complaining  to  him  even  when  the  overseers 
ill-treated  them. 

Consequently,  when  Sherman  went  marching  along,  the 
great  majority  of  them  bundled  up  their  little  effects  and 
followed  after  the  army.  They  had  nothing  to  bind  them 
to  the  old  place.  The  house  servants  and  a  few  negroes,  in 
whom  the  Judge  took  a  personal  interest,  remained,  but 
all  the  rest  went  away. 

Then,  in  a  few  months,  came  the  news  of  the  surren 
der,  bringing  with  it  a  species  of  paralysis  or  stupefaction 
from  which  the  people  were  long  in  recovering — so  long, 
indeed,  that  some  of  them  died  in  despair,  while  others 
lingered  on  the  stage,  watching,  with  dim  eyes  and  trem 
bling  limbs,  half-hopefully  and  half-fretfully,  the  repre 
sentatives  of  a  new  generation  trying  to  build  up  the  waste 
places.  There  was  nothing  left  for  Judge  Bascom  to  do 
but  to  take  his  place  among  the  spectators 

Briefly,  the  world  had  drifted  past  him  and  his  con 
temporaries  and  left  them  stranded.  Under  the  circum 
stances,  what  was  he  to  do?  It  is  true  he  had  a  magnifi 
cent  plantation,  but  this  merely  added  to  his  poverty. 
Negro  labor  was  demoralized,  and  the  overseer  class  had 
practically  disappeared.  He  would  have  sold  a  part  of 
his  landed  estate;  indeed,  so  pressing  were  his  needs  that 
he  would  have  sold  everything  except  the  house  which  his 
father  had  built  and  where  he  himself  was  born, — that  he 
would  not  have  parted  with  for  all  the  riches  in  the 
world — but  there  was  nobody  to  buy.  The  Judge's  neigh 
bors  and  his  friends,  with  the  exception  of  those  who  had 
accustomed  themselves  to  seizing  all  contingencies  by  the 
throat  and  wrestling  tribute  from  them,  were  in  as  severe 
a  strait  as  he  was ;  and  to  make  matters  worse,  the  political 


JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS  115 

affairs  of  the  State  were  in  the  most  appalling  condition. 
It  was  the  period  of  reconstruction.  Finally  time  brought 
a  purchaser,  and  the  old  place  became  owned  by  a  North 
ern  stranger. 

When  Colonel  Bascom  and  daughter  walk 
round  their  loved  home  the  following  conversa 
tion  occurs: 

The  old  gentleman  and  the  young  lady  walked  slowly 
along  the  hedge  of  Cherokee  roses  that  ran  around  the 
old  Bascom  Place,  while  the  negro  followed  at  a  respect 
ful  distance.  Once  they  pause,  and  the  old  gentleman 
rubbed  his  eyes  with  a  hand  that  trembled  a  little. 

"Why,  darling!"  he  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  mingled 
grief  and  astonishment,  "  they  have  cut  it  down." 

"  Cut  what  down,  father?  " 

"  Why,  the  weeping-willow.  Don't  you  remember  it, 
daughter?  It  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  field  yonder.  It 
was  a  noble  tree.  Well,  well,  well!  What  next,  I 
wonder?  " 

"  I  do  not  remember  it,  father;  I  have  so  much 
.  » 

"  Yes,  yes,"  the  old  gentleman  interrupted.  "  Of  course 
you  couldn't  remember.  The  place  has  been  changed  so 
that  I  have  forgotten  it  myself.  It  has  been  turned  topsy 
turvy — ruined — ruined!"  He  leaned  on  his  cane,  and 
with  quivering  lips  and  moist  eyes  looked  through  the 
green  perspective  of  the  park  and  over  the  fertile  fields 
and  meadows. 

"  Ruined !  "  exclaimed  the  young  lady,  "  how  can  you 
say  so,  father?     I  never  saw  a  more  beautiful  place.     It 
would  make  a  lovely  picture." 


n6  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 

"  And  they  have  changed  the  house,  too.  The  whole 
roof  has  been  changed."  The  old  man  pulled  down  his 
hat  over  his  eyes,  his  hand  trembling  more  than  ever. 
"  Let  us  turn  back,  Mildred,"  he  said  after  a  while.  "  The 
sight  of  all  this  frets  and  worries  me  more  than  I  thought 
it  would." 

"  They  say,"  said  the  daughter,  "  that  the  gentleman 
who  owns  the  place  has  made  a  good  deal  of  money." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  father,  "  I  suppose  so — I  suppose 
so.  So  I  have  heard.  A  great  many  people  are  making 
money  now  who  never  made  it  before — a  great  many." 

"  I  wish  they  would  tell  us  the  secret,"  said  the  young 
lady,  laughing  a  little. 

"  There  is  no  secret  about  it,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
"  none  whatever.  To  make  money  you  must  be  mean  and 
niggardly  yourself  and  then  employ  others  to  be  mean  and 
niggardly  for  you." 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  always  so,  father,"  the  young  girl  ex 
claimed. 

"  It  was  not  always  so,  my  daughter.  There  was  a 
time  when  one  could  make  money  and  remain  a  gentle 
man;  but  that  was  many  years  ago." 


Once  while  the  Judge  and  his  daughter  were  passing 
by  the  old  Bascom  Place  they  met  Prince,  the  mastiff,  in 
the  road.  The  great  dog  looked  at  the  young  lady  with 
kindly  eyes  and  expressed  his  approval  by  wagging  his 
tail.  At  the  gate  he  stopped  and  turned  around,  and 
seeing  the  fair  lady  and  old  gentleman  were  going  by,  he 
dropped  his  bulky  body  on  the  ground  in  a  disconsolate 
way  and  watched  them  as  they  passed  down  the  street. 


JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS  117 

The  next  afternoon  Prince  made  it  a  point  to  watch 
for  the  young  lady;  and  when  she  and  her  father  ap 
peared  in  sight  he  ran  to  meet  them  and  cut  up  such 
unusual  capers,  barking  and  running  around,  that  the 
master  went  down  the  avenue  to  see  what  the  trouble  was. 
Mr.  Underwood  (the  new  owner  of  the  Bascom  Place) 
took  off  his  hat  as  Judge  Bascom  and  his  daughter  drew 
near. 

"  This  is  Judge  Bascom,  I  presume,"  he  said.  "  My 
name  is  Underwood ;  I  am  glad  to  meet  you." 

"  This  is  my  daughter,  Mr.  Underwood,"  said  the 
Judge,  bowing  with  great  dignity. 

"  My  dog  has  paid  you  a  great  compliment,  Miss  Bas 
com,"  said  Francis  Underwood.  "  He  makes  few  friends, 
and  I  have  never  before  seen  him  sacrifice  his  dignity, 
through  his  enthusiasm." 

"  I  feel  highly  flattered  by  his  attentions,"  said  Mildred, 
laughing.  "  I  have  read  somewhere,  or  heard  it  said,  that 
the  instinct  of  a  little  child  and  a  dog  are  unerring." 

"  I  imagine,"  said  the  Judge,  in  his  dignified  way,  "  that 
instinct  has  little  to  do  with  the  matter.  I  prefer  to  be 
lieve  " — He  paused  a  moment,  looked  at  Underwood,  and 
laid  his  hand  on  the  young  man's  stalwart  shoulder.  "  Did 
you  know,  sir,"  he  went  on,  "  that  this  place,  all  these 
lands,  once  belonged  to  me?  "  His  dignity  had  vanished, 
his  whole  attitude  changed.  The  pathos  in  his  voice, 
which  was  suggested  rather  than  expressed,  swept  away 
whatever  astonishment  Francis  Underwood  might  have 
felt.  The  young  man  looked  at  the  Judge's  daughter  and 
their  eyes  met.  In  that  one  glance,  transitory  though  it 
was,  he  found  his  cue;  in  lustrous  eyes,  proud  yet  appeal 
ing,  he  read  a  history  of  trouble  and  sacrifice. 


n8  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 

"  Yes,"  Underwood  replied,  in  a  matter-of-fact  way. 
"  We  still  call  it  the  Bascom  Place,  you  know." 

"  I  should  think  so !  "  exclaimed  the  Judge,  bridling  up 
a  little ;  "  I  should  think  so !  Pray  what  else  could  it  be 
called?" 

"  Well,  it  might  have  been  called  Grassland,  you  know, 
or  The  Poplars,  but  somehow  the  old  name  seemed  to 
suit  it  best.  I  like  to  think  of  it  as  the  old  Bascom  Place. 
Won't  you  go  in,  sir,  and  look  at  the  old  house?  " 

The  Judge  turned  his  pale  and  wrinkled  face  toward 
his  old  home. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  not  now.  I  thank  you  very  much. 
I — somehow — no,  sir,  I  cannot  go  now." 

His  hand  shook  as  he  raised  it  to  his  face,  and  his  lips 
trembled  as  he  spoke.  "  Let  us  go  away,  daughter,"  he 
said  after  a  while.  "  We  have  walked  far  enough." 

By  permission  of  the  Century  Company,  Publishers, 
New  York. 


MRS.    VIRGINIA    L.    FRENCH 
1830—1881 

VIRGINIA  SMITH  (Mrs.  Virginia  L.  French) 
had  many  advantages  of  birth  and  education.  Born 
on  the  fair  shores  of  Virginia,  at  the  country  seat 
of  her  maternal  grandfather,  Captain  Thomas 
Parker,  an  officer  in  the  Revolutionary  War,  edu 
cated  in  Pennsylvania  and  married  in  Tennessee, 
her  life  has  been  like  herself,  varied  and  cosmo 
politan.  She  is,  nevertheless,  a  true  daughter  of 
the  Old  Dominion;  a  fair  representative  of  its  gay 
grace,  its  cordial  hospitality,  its  love  of  luxury, 
and  its  indomitable  pride. 

"  The  personal  appearance  of  Mrs.  French  was 
highly  prepossessing,  and  her  manner  so  gifted 
with  repose  as  to  be  unusually  tranquilizing  in  its 
social  influence.  Possessed  of  a  keen  insight,  she 
could  see  at  a  moment's  glance  the  poetical  in  a 
scene  or  situation,  and  with  her  heart  on  fire  with 
poetic  zeal  she  made  of  her  prose  passages  poetic 
jewels." 

Mrs.  French  at  an  early  age  was  left  an  orphan. 
At  eighteen  she  had  finished  her  education,  and  the 
same  year  went  to  Memphis,  Tennessee,  to  teach 

119 


120  VIRGINIA    L.    FRENCH 

school.  She  was  a  successful  teacher  for  several 
years,  but  gradually  turned  her  attention  to  liter 
ary  pursuits,  occasionally  contributing  articles  to 
the  journals  and  magazines  under  the  name  of 
"  L'Inconnue."  In  1852  she  became  associate 
editor  of  "  The  Southern  Ladies'  Book,"  published 
in  New  Orleans. 

She  wrote  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  "  L'In 
connue,"  and  her  poem,  "  The  Lost  Louisiana," 
in  quite  a  romantic  way  brought  about  a  meeting 
with  Mr.  John  H.  French,  whom  she  married  in 
1853.  A  newsboy  in  New  Orleans  selling  a  morn 
ing  paper  spoke  of  a  late  poem  on  "  The  Lost 
Louisiana,"  written  in  commemoration  of  a  col 
lision  which  had  just  occurred  between  the  "  Lou 
isiana  "  and  the  "  Belle  of  Clarksville,"  two  Mis 
sissippi  steamers.  It  so  happened  that  Mr.  French 
had  been  a  passenger  on  the  "  Belle  of  Clarks 
ville,"  and  had  lost  much  valuable  cargo,  barely 
escaping  with  his  life.  Interested  thus  in  the  disas 
ter,  he  read  the  poem  many  times,  and  kept  it 
carefully  in  his  pocket-book.  Not  long  after  he 
took  steamer  passage  up  the  Mississippi,  and  dur 
ing  the  detention  at  Memphis  he  went  into  a  book 
store  to  buy  some  reading  matter  to  relieve  the 
hours  of  travel  up  the  river.  His  attention  was 
arrested  by  seeing  the  name  of  "  L'Inconnue  "  and 
was  told  to  look  at  the  writer,  as  she  was  just  then 
passing  the  book  shop.  He  gave  one  look  into 


VIRGINIA    L.    FRENCH  121 

the  blue  eyes  that  met  his  like  the  eyes  of  Fate. 
An  introduction  was  effected,  the  steamer  went  on 
its  way  without  Mr.  French,  and  the  result  was 
marriage  with  the  fair  "  L'Inconnue  "  and  a  long 
residence  in  McMinnville,  Tennessee.  Here  Mrs. 
French's  home,  called  "  Forest  Home,"  became 
noted  for  beautiful  scenery,  its  comfort,  its  taste 
ful  arrangement,  and  here  this  writer  led  a  retired, 
studious,  and  happy  life. 

In  1856  Mrs.  French  published  a  collection  of 
her  poems  under  the  title  of  "  Wind  Whispers." 
Her  "  Legends  of  the  South  "  are  finely  imagina 
tive  and  graphic.  "  Iztalilxo,  the  Lady  of  Tala," 
is  a  tragedy  in  five  acts  and  contains  passages  of 
great  beauty  and  force.  Mrs.  French's  prose 
writings  were  instinct  with  poetical  expression,  and 
her  review  of  Madame  Le  Vert's  "  Souvenirs  of 
Travel  "  was  copied  into  the  best  papers  here  and 
in  Europe. 

"  The  Legend  of  the  Infernal  Pass  "  was  in 
spired  by  the  story  of  the  famous  gorge  some  fif 
teen  miles  long,  called  "  El  Canon  Inferno," 
where  rise  stupendous  masses  of  rock  piled  upon 
rock,  until  the  traveler  sees  at  the  top  but  a  narrow 
strip  of  sky.  The  white  steed  alluded  to  in  the 
tradition  is  still  said  to  be  seen  at  intervals  by  the 
warriors  of  the  Comanches.  He  is  represented  as 
of  exceeding  beauty  and  vigor,  but  of  such  swift 
ness  that,  notwithstanding  the  most  daring  efforts 


122  VIRGINIA    L.    FRENCH 

to  capture  him,  he  has  never  been  brought  within 
range  of  the  lariat. 

His  neigh  to  the  wind  rose  wild  and  high, 

(Thou  rider  bold,  take  heed,) 
With  the  stag's  fleet  foot  he  bounded  by, 

That  beautiful  demon-steed! 
But  the  glare  of  his  eye  the  soul  had  shook, 

With  its  terrible  human  look! 


The  versatility  of  this  gifted  poet  has  caused  her 
critics  to  take  different  views  of  her  work.  One 
says :  "  As  a  journalist  she  was  par  excellence." 
Another  one  says:  "Poetry  was  her  strong 
point,"  and  for  the  poem  "  Shermanized  "  claims 
that:  "  Never  sprang  cooler  and  keener  sarcasm 
from  more  tranquil  lips.  It  is  the  flash  of  the 
'  yataghan  '  from  a  velvet  sheath — the  cold,  clear 
gleam  of  the  sword  from  a  silver  scabbard."  Still 
another  critic  takes  another  view  and  says:  "  Mrs. 
French  writes  the  best  prose,  with  the  strongest 
sense  in  it,  of  any  Southern  writer." 

Among  Mrs.  French's  poems  are :  "  The  Elo 
quence  of  Ruins,"  "  Mammy,"  "  Sherman 
ized,"  "The  Auctioneer,"  "The  Broken  Sen 
tence."  Her  other  works  are :  "  Wind  Whis 
pers,"  "Legends  of  the  South,"  "  Iztalilxo," 
a  Tragedy;  and  "  My  Roses,  The  Romance  of  a 
June  Day." 


VIRGINIA    L.    FRENCH  123 

She  has  written  one  poem  which  many  regarded 
as  unequaled  in  its  line  by  any  writer.  It  is  a  mas 
terpiece  of  the  highest  type  and  deservedly  ranks 
with  the  greatest  efforts  of  American  poets. 


THE    LEGEND   OF   THE   LOST    SOUL 

Ha!  what  a  frenzied  cry 
Up  the  lone  forest-aisles  conies  sadly  wailing, 
Now  quick  and  sharp,  now  choked  with  agony, 
As  sight  and  sense  were  failing. 

The  far  stars  coldly  smiled 
Down  through  the  arches  of  the  twilight  wood, 
Where  sire  and  mother  sought  their  child, 
In  the  dark  solitude. 

And  low  the  phantom  wind 
Came  stealing  o'er  the  hills  with  ghostly  feet, 
But  paused  not  in  its  flight  to  bear  one  kind, 
Soft  echo,  shrill  and  sweet. 

O'er  them  the  giant  trees, 

All  proudly  waving,  tossed  their  arms  on  high, 
Yet  no  loved  baby-voice  from  'midst  of  these 
Answered  their  broken  cry. 

But  one  sad  piping  note, 
That  strangely  syllabled  a  blended  name, 
As  seemed  its  cadences  to  fall  or  float 
From  boughs  above  them  came. 


124  VIRGINIA    L.    FRENCH 

The  mother  started  wild, 

As  that  strange  sound  the  forest  foliage  stirred, 
Then  hastened  to  the  sire;  she  knew  her  child, 
In  that  lone  spirit-bird. 

No  word  the  father  spake ; 
His  face  was  ghastly,  and  its  haggard  lines 
Lay  stern  and  rigid,  like  some  frozen  lake 
O'ershadowed  by  its  pines. 

Shuddering  she  strove  to  speak, 
Once  more  in  nature's  strong  appealing  tones, 
To  supplicate  her  child — there  came  a  shriek 
That  died  in  heavy  moans. 

The  night  came  down;  afar 
Was  heard  the  hoarse,  deep  baying  of  the  storm, 
And  thunder  clouds  around  each  captive  star 
In  black  battalions  form. 

Now,  all  the  mighty  wood 
Has  voices  like  the  sullen  sounding  sea, 
While  onward  rolls  the  deep  majestic  flood 
His  surges  solemnly. 

The  massy  foliage  rocks, 
Slow  swaying  to  the  wind,  and  failing  fast 
Embattled  oaks,  that  braved  a  thousand  shocks, 
Are  bending  to  the  blast. 

And  crimson  tropic  bloom 
Lies  heaped  upon  the  sward,  as  though  a  wave 
Of  summer  sunset  streams  within  the  gloom 
Had    found    a   verdant    grave. 


VIRGINIA    L.    FRENCH  125 

Down  came  the  rushing  rain, 
But  far,  perchance,  where  thunders  never  roll, 
The  bird  had  flown,  the  parents  called  in  vain, 
Upon  the  wandering  soul. 

Then    feeble   'mid   the   maze 
Of  'wildering  storm,  their  feet  the  cabin  sought, 
Oft  turning  back  to  search,  with  blinded  gaze, 
For  that  which  now  was  not. 

True,  true — the  tale  is  old, 
And  full  of  sorrow  the  tradition  hoary, 
Yet,  daily  life's  unwritten  annals  hold 
A  sterner,  sadder  story. 

Oh !  hear  ye  not  the  cry, 

That  every  hour  sends  up  where  thick  life  presses, 
That  shrieks  from  lowest  depths  to  God  on  high 
From  life's  great  wilderness? 

It  is  the  cry  of  Woman, 
And  hers  the  really  lost  and  wandering  soul, 
Seeking,  amid  the  godlike,  yet  the  human, 
To  find  her  destined  goal. 

Like  glacier  of  the  North, 
Her  pure  and  shining  spirit  braves  the  sea 
Of  Life  and  Action,  drifting,  drifting  forth 
On   waves  of   destiny. 

"  Deep  calling  unto  deep," 
How  raves  the  ocean  by  the  tempest  tossed ! 
Perchance  her  onward  course  the  soul  may  keep, 
Perchance  'tis  wrecked,  or  lost. 


i26  VIRGINIA    L.    FRENCH 

Perchance  some  other  heart, 
In  pride  of  Being,  standing  firm  and  free, 
May  call,  "  Oh,  seeker  of  the  better  part, 
Come,  wanderer,  to  me !  " 

Alas!  that  dulcet  tone 

Is  but  the  hollow  music  of  a  shell 

That  mocks  the  ocean ;  yet,  the  pilgrim  lone 

It  wins  as  by  a  spell. 

The  dream,  the  dream  is  past — 
Perchance  some  careless  word,  some  fancied  wrong, 
The  soul  is  driven  forth — Oh!  woe  the  last, 
The  weaker  by  the  strong. 

From  her  closed  lips  a  moan 
Goes  up — yet  seems  it  her  unspoken  prayer 
Falls  back  again  upon  her  heart  alone 
To  sink  and  perish  there. 

And  then  her  spirit  pants 
Beneath  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day, 
Still  struggling  on  amid  the  vulture  wants 
That  make  her  heart  their  prey. 

Still,  in  its  source  of  pain 
Clinging  most  fondly ;  and,  in  holy  trust, 
Pouring  its  worship  in  a  worse  than  vain 
Idolatry  of  dust. 

Like  the  great  organ  rocks 

That  rise  on  Orinoco's  distant  shore, 

She  sends  rich  music  o'er  the  wave  that  mocks, 

Yet  answers  her  no  more ! 


VIRGINIA    L.    FRENCH  127 

From  the  still  firmament 

A  star  drops,  sparkles,  and  almost  before 

The  eye  can  note,  is  gone — with  chaos  blent — , 

Its  brilliancy  is  o'er. 

And  thus  with  thee, — unknown, 
Unrecognized,  and  lost  in  earthly  clime, 
Thy  'wildered  soul  may  wander,  and  alone 
Go  from  the  shores  of  time. 

Yet,  far  in  yon  blue  dome, 
Where  dwell  the  spirits  of  the  dead  departed, 
There  thou  art  known ;  and  they  will  welcome  home 
An  angel, — broken-hearted. 

Then  courage,  weary  one! 

Work  while  thou  may'st, — for  though  thy  spirit, 

riven, 

Is  fading  like  a  fountain  in  the  sun, 
Exhaled,  it  reaches  heaven ! 


GRACE    ELIZABETH   KING 

1852— 

STILL  living  in  the  old  homestead  in  the  city  of 
New  Orleans,  where  she  was  born,  Grace  King 
continues  her  literary  work,  which  was  begun 
many  years  ago.  Her  excellent  stories  are  still 
being  published  in  "  The  Century  Magazine." 
She  is  the  daughter  of  a  prominent  native  Lou 
isiana  family. 

Possibly  her  strongest  work  is  entitled  "  Earth- 
lings."  In  it  are  pictured  with  intense  reality  the 
possibilities  of  those  who  can  be  conscientiously 
called  "  Earthlings."  It  is  a  story  full  of  fire  and 
pathos  from  beginning  to  end.  Indeed,  as  has 
been  aptly  said:  "  One  closes  the  cover  of  the  book 
with  a  heartfelt  sigh  that  it  is  over,  this  dream 
through  which  you  have  been  carried,  so  beauti 
ful  and  yet  so  true." 

It  is  probable  that  her  greatest  reputation  has 
been  achieved  on  what  is  known  as  her  "  Balcony 
Stories,"  for  it  is  these  that  she  devoted  largely 
to  pictures  of  Creole  beauties.  A  passage  taken 
from  one  of  them  will  be  sufficient  to  show  how 
minutely  she  enters  into  detail,  and  yet  with  what 

128 


GRACE    ELIZABETH    KING  129 

tact  and  ability  she  manages  to  hold  the  reader's 
interest,  all  the  while  showing  all  the  follies  and 
foibles,  as  well  as  the  virtues,  of  the  heroine. 

LA   GRANDE   DEMOISELLE 

That  was  what  she  was  called  by  everybody  as  soon  as 
she  was  seen  or  described.  Her  name,  besides  baptismal 
titles,  was  Idalie  Sante  Foy  Mortemart  des  Islets.  When 
she  came  into  society,  in  the  brilliant  world  of  New  Or 
leans,  it  was  the  event  of  the  season,  and  after  she  came 
in,  whatever  she  did  became  also  events.  Whether  she 
went,  or  did  not  go;  what  she  said,  or  did  not  say;  what 
she  wore,  and  did  not  wear,  all  these  became  important 
matters  of  discussion,  quoted  as  much  or  more  than  what 
the  President  said,  or  the  Governor  thought,  and  in  those 
days,  the  days  of  '59,  New  Orleans  was  not,  as  it  is  now, 
a  one-heiress  place,  but  it  may  be  said  that  one  could  find 
heiresses  then  as  one  finds  typewriting  girls  now. 

Mademoiselle  Idalie  received  her  birth  and  what  educa 
tion  she  had  on  her  parents'  plantation,  the  famed  old 
Reine  Sainte  Foy  place,  and  it  is  no  secret  that,  like  the 
ancient  Kings  of  France,  her  birth  exceeded  her  education. 

It  was  a  plantation,  the  Reine  Sainte  Foy,  the  richness 
and  luxury  of  which  are  really  well  described  in  those 
perfervid  pictures  of  tropical  life,  at  one  time  the  passion 
of  philanthropic  imaginations,  excited  and  exciting  over 
the  horrors  of  slavery.  Although  these  pictures  were  then 
often  accused  of  being  purposely  exaggerated,  they  seem 
now  to  fall  short  of,  instead  of  surpassing  the  truth. 
Stately  walls,  acres  of  roses,  miles  of  oranges,  unmeasured 
fields  of  cane,  colossal  sugar  house, — they  were  all  there, 


i3o  GRACE    ELIZABETH    KING 

and  all  the  rest  of  it  with  the  slaves,  slaves,  slaves,  every 
where,  whole  villages  of  negro  cabins,  and  there  were 
also, — most  noticeable  to  the  natural  as  well  as  the  vis 
ionary  eye — there  were  the  ease,  idleness,  extravagance, 
self-indulgence,  pomp,  pride,  arrogance,  in  short,  the 
whole  enumeration,  the  moral  sine  qua  non,  as  some  people 
considered  it,  of  the  wealthy  slave-holder  of  aristocratic 
descent  and  estates. 

What  Mademoiselle  Idalie  cared  to  learn  she  studied, 
what  she  did  not  she  ignored;  and  she  followed  the  same 
simple  rule  untrammeled  in  her  eating,  drinking,  dressing, 
and  comportment  generally;  and  whatever  discipline  may 
have  been  exercised  on  the  place,  either  in  fact  or  fiction, 
most  assuredly  none  of  it,  even  so  much  as  in  a  threat, 
ever  attained  her  sacred  person.  When  she  was  just 
turned  sixteen  Mademoiselle  Idalie  made  up  her  mind  to 
go  into  society.  Whether  she  was  beautiful  or  not,  it  is 
hard  to  say.  It  is  almost  impossible  to  appreciate  properly 
the  beauty  of  the  rich,  the  very  rich.  The  unfettered 
development,  the  limitless  choice  of  accessories,  the  confi 
dence,  the  self-esteem,  the  sureness  of  expression,  the  sim 
plicity  of  purpose,  the  ease  of  execution,  all  these  produce 
a  certain  effect  of  beauty  behind  which  one  really  cannot 
get  to  be  sure  of  the  length  of  the  nose,  or  brilliancy  of  the 
eye.  This  much  can  be  said:  there  was  nothing  in  her 
that  positively  contradicted  any  assumption  of  beauty  on 
her  part,  or  credit  of  it  on  the  part  of  others.  She  was 
very  tall  and  very  thin,  with  a  small  head,  long  neck, 
black  eyes,  and  abundant  straight  black  hair, — for  which 
her  hair  dresser  deserved  more  praise  than  she, — good 
teeth,  of  course,  and  a  mouth  that,  even  in  prayer,  talked 
nothing  but  commands;  that  is  about  all  she  had  en  fait 


GRACE    ELIZABETH    KING  131 

d'ornements,  as  the  modistes  say.  It  may  be  added  that 
she  walked  as  if  the  Reine  Sainte  Foy  plantation  ex 
tended  over  the  whole  earth,  and  the  soil  of  it  were  too 
vile  for  her  tread. 

Other  books  by  this  author  are: 

"  Monsieur  Motte,"  "  Tales  of  Time  and 
Place,"  "The  Place  and  the  People,"  "Jean 
Baptiste  Lemoine,  Founder  of  New  Orleans " ; 
"  De  Soto  and  His  Men  in  the  Land  of  Florida." 


FRANCIS   ORRERY    TICKNOR 

1822 — 1874 

THIS  writer  was  a  physician  by  profession,  and 
wrote  poetry  only  when  the  spirit  moved.  His 
birthplace  was  in  Baldwin  County,  near  Colum 
bus,  Georgia. 

In  the  introductory  remarks  by  Paul  Hamilton 
Hayne  for  the  edition  of  Dr.  Ticknor's  volume  of 
poetry,  published  in  1879,  he  says  of  Ticknor: 
"  He  combined  in  his  mental  and  moral  constitu 
tion  many  of  the  best  qualities  of  the  North  and 
South.  His  father  was  a  New  Jerseyman,  a  phy 
sician  of  great  energy,  who  married  into  a  dis 
tinguished  family  of  Savannah,  and  settled  in  that 
city.  This  father  dying  early  in  life  left  his  widow 
with  three  small  children  to  support.  She  re 
moved  to  Columbus,  in  Georgia,  and  succeeded  in 
giving  her  sons  excellent  educations.  Frank  Tick 
nor  studied  medicine  in  New  York  and  Philadel 
phia,  and  soon  after  graduation  married  Miss 
Rosalie  Nelson,  daughter  of  Major  F.  M.  Nelson, 
a  distinguished  soldier  of  the  war  of  1812,  and 
later  a  prominent  member  of  Congress.  A  few 
years  afterwards  Dr.  Frank  O.Ticknor  purchased 

132 


FRANCIS   ORRERY    TICKNOR          135 

a  farm  not  far  from  Columbus,  situated  on  the 
summit  of  a  high  hill,  and  celebrated  by  tradition 
as  the  scene  where  a  desperate  Indian  battle  had 
been  fought  by  torch-light.  For  this  reason  the 
place  was  called  '  Torch  Hill.'  The  new  home  was 
beautifully  situated,  overlooking  for  miles  the 
Chattahoochee  River.  Here  in  this  beautiful 
plare  Dr.  Ticknor  lived  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a 
century,  and  he  surrounded  the  home  with  fruits 
and  flowers  till  it  was  called  '  a  perfect  Eden  of 
Roses.'  " 

"  Art  opened  to  his  soul,"  says  Hayne,  "  not  one 
alone,  but  several  of  her  fairest  domains.  He  was 
a  gifted  musician,  playing  exquisitely  on  the  flute, 
and  was  a  draughtsman  of  readiest  skill  and  taste. 
No  more  experienced  doctor  or  successful  scientist 
could  be  found  in  the  country,  the  scene  of  his  la 
bors.  Everybody  loved  him,  especially  the  suffer 
ing  poor.  Far  and  wide,  among  the  '  Sand  Bar 
rens,'  or  in  the  neighboring  farm  houses,  the  good 
and  wise  physician  was  known  and  welcomed.  His 
gleeful  smile,  his  spontaneous  witticisms  (for  his 
mind  actually  bubbled  over  with  innocent  humors) 
cheered  up  many  a  despondent  invalid." 

Again,  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  says  of  Ticknor's 
work :  "  Brief  swallow  flights  of  song  only  were 
possible  to  a  man  whose  days  and  nights  were  so 
occupied." 

When  the  great  Civil  War  began,  Ticknor  had 


134          FRANCIS   ORRERY    TICKNOR 

just  reached  the  verge  of  middle  age.  His  in 
tellectual  forces  were  in  their  fullest  bloom;  and 
so  it  is  not  surprising  that  many  of  his  ablest  songs 
belong  to  this  period. 

"  One  lyric,  associated  with  the  war,"  Hayne 
says,  "  must  appeal  to  many  thousands  still  living 
with  a  pathos  not  to  be  resisted  is  '  Unknown.'  ' 

The  prints  of  feet  are  worn  away, 
No  more  the  mourners  come; 
The  voice  of  wail  is  mute  to-day 
As  his  whose  life  is  dumb. 

The  world  is  bright  with  other  bloom ; 
Shall  the  sweet  summer  shed 
Its  living  radiance  o'er  the  tomb 
That  shrouds  the  doubly  dead? 

Unknown !  Beneath  our  Father's  face 
The  starlit  hillocks  lie ; 
Another  rosebud!  lest  His  grace 
Forget  us  when  we  die ! 

Dr.  Ticknor's  poems  have  had  countless  ad 
mirers  among  those  who  have  never  heard  of  Dr. 
Ticknor  himself,  and  the  verses  are  often  treas 
ured,  either  in  memory  or  in  scrap-books,  simply  as 
anonymous  gems  which  have  come  from  some  un 
known  author.  "  Frequently  his  poems  have  been 
copied  into  newspapers  and  periodicals  without  any 
credit  marks  whatever,  and  often  public  speakers, 


FR4NCIS    ORRERY    TICKNOR          135 

in  appropriate  connections,  have  quoted  favorite 
lines  and  stanzas  from  his  splendid  lyrics  without 
being  able  to  tell  who  wrote  them.  To  cite  an 
illustration,  no  poem  is  more  frequently  quoted  or 
more  warmly  admired  for  its  rhythmic  beauty  and 
exquisite  sentiment  than  '  The  Virginians  of  the 
Valley,'  and  yet  not  one  person  out  of  ten  knows 
that  the  poem  is  from  the  pen  of  Dr.  Ticknor." 

When  General  Spotswood  and  his  band  of  fol 
lowers  rode  over  the  mountains  of  the  Blue  Ridge 
and  opened  the  beautiful  valley  beyond  to  the  set 
tlement  of  the  white  man,  the  horses  of  the  com 
pany  had  to  be  shod  for  the  first  time  after  leaving 
the  soft  soil  of  the  coast.  Upon  returning  from 
this  expedition,  which  was  considered  quite  a  brave 
one,  the  House  of  Burgesses  presented  these  men 
small  golden  horseshoes.  Those  receiving  this 
honor  were  considered  as  knighted,  and  in  this 
poem  of  "  Virginians  of  the  Valley,"  the  poet  re 
fers  to  these  "  Golden  Horseshoe  Knights." 

This  favorite  gem  was  inspired  by  the  gallantry 
of  the  Virginia  soldiers  who  participated  with 
Stonewall  Jackson  in  the  valley  campaigns. 

THE    VIRGINIANS   OF   THE   VALLEY 

The  knightliest  of  the  knightly  race 

That,  since  the  days  of  old, 
Have  kept  the  lamp  of  chivalry 

Alight  in  hearts  of  gold ; 


136          FRANCIS   ORRERY    TICKNOR 

The  kindliest  of  the  kindly  band 

That,  rarely  hating  ease, 
Yet  rode  with  Spotswood  round  the  land, 

And  Raleigh  round  the  seas; 

Who  climbed  the  blue  Virginian  hills 

Against  embattled  foes, 
And  planted  there,  in  valleys  fair, 

The  lily  and  the  rose! 
Whose  fragrance  lives  in  many  lands, 

Whose  beauty  stars  the  earth, 
And  lights  the  hearths  of  happy  homes 

With  loveliness  and  worth. 

We  thought  they  slept ! — the  sons  who  kept 

The  names  of  noble  sires, — 
And  slumbered  while  the  darkness  crept 

Around  their  vigil  fires; 
But,  aye,  the  "  Golden  Horseshoe  Knights  " 

Their  Old  Dominion  keep, 
Whose  foes  have  found  enchanted  ground 

But  not  a  knight  asleep !  " 

This  poet  wrote  under  the  inspiration  of  other 
sentiments  than  those  of  chivalry,  as  is  shown  by 
such  poems  as  "  Home." 

Bless  that  dear  old  Anglo-Saxon 
For  the  sounds  he  formed  so  well; 
Little  word,  the  nectar-waxen 
Harvest  of  a  honey  cell, 


FRANCIS   ORRERY    TICKNOR          137 

Sealing  all  a  summer's  sweetness 
In  a  single  syllable! 
For,  of  all  his  quaint  word-building, 
The  queen-cell  of  all  the  comb 
Is  that  grand  old  Saxon  mouthful, 
Dear  old  Saxon  heart-ful  Home. 


Another  poem  whose  admirers  are  found  on 
both  sides  of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line,  which 
has  often  been  read  with  tearful  emotions  by  the 
veterans  of  the  blue,  as  well  as  of  the  gray,  is 
"  Little  Giffen  of  Tennessee."  This  poem  com 
petent  critics  have  pronounced  one  of  the  finest 
productions  of  the  war  period  of  American 
literature. 

Dr.  Ticknor's  poems  of  the  Civil  War  were  the 
most  popular  of  any  written,  largely  because  of 
their  beauty  and  pathos,  and  absence  of  bitterness, 
for  they  appeal  to  the  human  heart.  "  With  a 
heart  as  broad  as  humanity  itself,  and  a  poetic 
ability  surpassed  by  few,  Francis  Orrery  Ticknor 
has  left  one  poem,  a  monument  that  will  last  when 
monuments  of  stone  and  clay  have  passed  away 
and  been  forgotten.  '  Little  Giffen  '  is  a  mas 
terpiece  of  pathos.  Its  perusal  always  touches  the 
heart  of  the  sympathetic  reader.  Its  historical 
value  is  great,  too,  because  it  pictures  so  typically 
the  condition  of  the  South,  and  its  fighting  heroes 
— so  many  of  whom  were  boys." 


138          FR4NCIS    ORRERY    TICKNOR 

The  story  of  "  Little  GiffenTof  Tennessee  "  was 
a  true  one.  Isaac  Giffen  went  into  the  Southern 
army  a  mere  boy;  he  was  terribly  wounded  and 
taken  to  the  hospital  at  Columbus,  Georgia.  Here 
good  Dr.  Ticknor  found  him  and  took  him  to 
his  own  home,  where  Mrs.  Ticknor's  careful  nurs 
ing  and  the  Doctor's  medical  skill  saved  him  from 
death.  The  boy  was  the  son  of  a  blacksmith  and 
had  received  no  education.  During  convalescence 
he  learned  to  read  and  write.  He  was  anxious  to 
return  to  the  army,  and  was  killed  in  some  battle 
around  Atlanta. 

Maurice  Thompson  says :  "  If  there  is  a  finer 
lyric  than  this  in  the  whole  realm  of  poetry,  I 
should  be  glad  to  read  it." 

LITTLE  GIFFEN 

Out  of  the  focal  and  foremost  fire, 
Out  of  the  hospital  walls  as  dire; 
Smitten  of  grapeshot  and  gangrene, 
(Eighteenth  battle  and  he  sixteen!) 
Spectre,  such  as  you  seldom  see, 
Little  Giffen,  of  Tennessee. 

"  Take  him  and  welcome!  "  the  surgeon    said; 
"  Little  the  doctor  can  help  the  dead !  " 
So  we  took  him  and  brought  him  where 
The  balm  was  sweet  in  our  summer  air; 
And  we  laid  him  down  on  a  wholesome  bed — 
Utter  Lazarus,  heel  to  head ! 


FRANCIS    ORRERY    TICKNOR          139 

And  we  watched  the  war  with  abated  breath, — 
Skeleton  Boy  against  skeleton  Death! 
Months  of  torture,  how  many  such ! 
Weary  weeks  of  the  stick  and  crutch ; 
And  still  a  glint  of  the  steel-blue  eye 
Told  of  a  spirit  that  wouldn't  die. 

And  didn't.    Nay,  more!  in  death's  respite 
The  cripple  skeleton  learned  to  write. 
"  Dear  mother  "  at  first,  of  course,  and  then, 
"  Dear  Captain,"  inquiring  about  the  men. 
Captain's  answer:  "  Of  eighty  and  five, 
Giffen  and  I  are  left  alive." 

Word  of  gloom  from  the  war,  one  day, 

Johnston  pressed  at  the  front,  they  say. 

Little  Giffen  was  up  and  away; 

A  tear — his  first — as  he  bade  good-bye, — 

Dimmed  the  glint  of  his  steel-blue  eye. 

"  I'll  write,  if  spared !  "  There  was  news  of  the  fight, 

But  none  of  Giffen — he  did  not  write. 

I  sometimes  fancy  that,  were  I  king 

Of  the  princely  Knights  of  the  Golden  Ring, 

With  the  song  of  the  minstrel  in  mine  ear 

And  the  tender  legend  that  trembles  here, 

I'd  give  the  best  on  his  bended  knee, 

The  whitest  soul  of  my  chivalry, 

For  "  Little  Giffen,"  of  Tennessee. 

Referring    to    this    poem    Hayne    says:  "The 
opening  stanza  is  a  bold  swell  of  music,  something 


1 40          FRANCIS    ORRERY    TICKNOR 

clarion  like.  The  identical  rhyme  of  the  last 
couplet,  of  the  first  verse,  one  loses  sight  of  in  the 
exceeding  terseness  of  the  language,  the  outright 
vigor  of  the  rhetorical  stroke.  Most  poets  dally 
with  their  conceptions.  But  this  one  seizes  his 
idea  at  once,  thrusts  it  into  position  of  strong  re 
lief,  fastens  it  there,  and  is  done.  Technically 
speaking,  his  style  is  dynamic." 

Of  the  whole  poem  he  says:  "  Here  there  is  no 
straining  after  effect,  no  floundering  to  get  up  a 
foam;  but  that  sturdy  art  which  is  the  spirit  of  a 
genuine  popular  ballad." 

Of  another  poem,  "  Loyal,"  Hayne  says:  "  It  is 
an  absolutely  perfect  ballad.  Was  ever  the  his 
torical  incident  it  commemorates  more  feelingly 
and  vividly  described?  " 

Some  of  Ticknor's  war  poems  in  addition  to 
those  previously  mentioned  are  as  follows :  "The 
Sword  of  Raphael  Semmes,"  "Loyal,"  "Albert 
Sidney  Johnston,"  "  Virginia,"  "  Georgia  and 
Lee."  Among  other  poems  are  "  Lady  Alice," 
"  Rosalie,"  and  "  Mary."  His  poems  were  col 
lected  and  published  by  Miss  Kate  Mason  Roland, 
of  Richmond,  in  1879. 


ELISABETH  WHITFIELD  BELLAMY 
1838 — 1900 

MRS.  BELLAMY  belonged  to  the  Croon  family 
of  North  Carolina,  and  before  the  war  she  married 
her  cousin,  Dr.  Charles  Bellamy.  She  was  edu 
cated  in  Philadelphia  at  Pelham  Priory,  was  a  fine 
musician  and  linguist  and  a  most  excellent  English 
scholar.  She  lost  husband  and  children  in  the  Civil 
War  and  was  compelled  to  write  for  a  living.  She 
wrote  for  "  Appleton's  Magazine  "  and  was  a  con 
tributor  of  short  stories  for  "  The  Cycle,"  pub 
lished  in  Mobile.  She  also  gave  private  lessons  in 
English  and  other  languages.  Amelie  Rives,  the 
novelist,  was  one  of  her  pupils.  Mrs.  Bellamy 
first  wrote  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  "  Kamba 
Thorpe."  Among  her  works  are  "  Four  Oaks," 
"  Little  Johanna,"  and  a  dialect  story,  "  Old  Man 
Gilbert." 

OLD  MAN  GILBERT 

Colonel  Thorpe  was  in  his  office,  as  a  separate  small 
building  was  called  in  which  he  transacted  all  kinds  of 
business.  Apparently  he  was  unoccupied  when  old  Gil 
bert  entered,  for  he  sat  in  his  leather-covered  armchair 

141 


i42     ELISABETH  WHITFIELD  BELLAMY 

stroking  his  beard  and  staring  at  the  fire.  But  he  thrust 
aside  his  musings  when  he  heard  old  Gilbert's  familiar 
salutation,  and  said  with  an  effort  at  gayety: 

"  Well,  old  man,  what  foolishness  are  you  up  to  now?  " 

"  Hit's  business,  Mawster,  if  you  please,  suh,  dis  time," 
old  Gilbert  made  answer,  twirling  his  hat,  by  way  of  re 
lief  to  his  embarrassment.  "  Ise  been  studyin'  on  a  trade 
ef  you'd  gib  yo'  cawnsent,  suh." 

"Well?" 

"  Dot  ole  white  mule,  Zip,  suh.  I  wuz  studyin'  det 
you  mought  be  minded  to  tak  sixty  dollars  fur  him,  he  is 
a  old  mule." 

"What!  have  you  saved  up  sixty  dollars?"  exclaimed 
the  Colonel.  "  And  you  want  to  buy  old  Zip  and  then 
feed  him  on  my  corn  and  fodder,  eh  ?  " 

"You  wouldn't  miss  what  he'd  eat,  suh,  nur  nary 
nuther  mule,"  old  Gilbert  said,  deprecatingly,  uncon 
scious  of  the  comparison  he  had  made,  but  which  the 
Colonel  perceived  and  smiled  at  grimly. 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  want  with  the  mule !  "  he  said. 
"  Old  Brandy  and  the  ox-cart  about  belong  to  you  now." 

"  Ole  Brandy  an'  de  yox-cart  ain't  so  servisable  fur 
plowin',"  Gilbert  explained. 

"  I  don't  want  your  money,"  said  the  Colonel  shortly. 
"  You  can  take  the  mule  any  time  you  may  need  him," 
the  Colonel  added,  and  he  repeated:  "  I  don't  want  your 
money." 

"  Tankee,  tankee,  Mawster,  tankee,  suh,"  old  Gilbert 
responded,  but  there  was  disappointment  in  his  tone.  He 
lingered  an  instant,  as  if  he  meant  to  say  more,  then 
turned  and  went  his  shambling  way  out  of  the  office. 
When  he  had  gone  down  the  steps  he  looked  back  to  say : 


ELISABETH  WHITFIELD  BELLAMY     143 

"  Ain't  I  heard  you  tell  de  oberseer  that  Zip  is  wuth 
'bout  sixty  dollars?" 

"  I  suppose  he  may  be  worth  about  that,"  the  Colonel 
answered  absently. 

It  wanted  now  but  a  few  days  of  Christmas,  which  the 
Colonel  desired  to  celebrate  just  as  usual.  The  turkeys 
long  had  been  fattening,  the  beef  was  killed,  the  bonfires 
piled  ready  for  lighting.  If  his  son  Nicolas's  absence  was 
felt,  no  one  alluded  to  it. 

On  Christmas  morning  the  Hill  resounded  with  pop 
ping  of  fire  crackers,  the  shooting  of  Christmas  guns,  and 
repeated  shouts  in  every  variety  of  tone.  "  Christmas  gif, 
Mawster;  Christmas  gif,  Missie  Virey,  Christmas  gif, 
Missie." 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  Glory  Ann  took 
occasion  to  ask: 

"  Missie  Virey,  is  you  sont  ole  man  Gilbert  off  any 
whey." 

"  Where  should  I  be  sending  him?  "  said  Miss  Elvira. 

"  Dun-no  me,"  Glory  Ann  answered  with  mystery. 
"  Maybe  hit's  Mawster  is  sont  'im." 

Old  Gilbert  had  been  absent  since  the  morning  after 
Christmas.  His  cabin  was  locked,  and  there  was  no 
smoke  in  his  chimney. 

When  the  matter  was  investigated  farther,  it  was 
found  that  the  old  white  mule,  Zip,  was  missing  likewise. 
The  Colonel  received  this  information  with  a  stare  at 
first,  and  then  burst  out  laughing,  though  no  one  knew 
why  he  laughed. 

The  Colonel  going  into  his  office  one  morning  was  sur- 


144     ELISABETH  WHITFIELD  BELLAMY 

prised  to  find  on  his  table  an  uncouth  package  wrapped  in 
a  piece  of  cloth,  and  tied  with  a  length  of  twine  multi- 
tudinously  knotted.  When  this  was  opened,  there  revealed 
a  quantity  of  coin  to  the  amount  of  sixty  dollars!  The 
Colonel's  stern  features  relaxed  into  a  pathetic  smile.  This 
was  the  price  of  the  old  white  mule,  but  how  it  came  there 
on  his  table  was  a  problem  he  made  no  attempt  to  solve. 
Carefully  he  tied  the  money  up  again,  and  locked  it  away 
in  a  drawer  of  his  big  mahogany  secretary  against  a  day 
of  reckoning,  a  day  more  distant  than  he  dreamed. 

Farther  on  in  this  beautiful  plantation  story  we 
learn  that  old  Gilbert,  with  noble  purpose,  had 
stolen  away  on  old  Zip,  and  that  after  much  effort 
and  many  dangers  the  faithful  slave,  with  that 
wonderful  devotion,  the  offspring  of  slavery,  had 
found  and  brought  back  to  the  plantation  the  lost 
and  erring  boy — and  that  the  Colonel  was  most 
deeply  touched  by  this  devotion,  and  still  could 
not  suppress  a  tender  smile  as  he  handed  back  to 
old  Gilbert  his  sixty  dollars  carefully  tied  up  in  the 
same  piece  of  cotton  cloth. 

The  following  beautiful  description  is  from 
"  Four  Oaks  "  : 

There  is  an  old  tomb  in  the  garden  where  Anthony 
Fletcher  lies  buried,  but  his  name  is  otherwise  perpetuated 
in  Netherford  by  the  great  bell  of  St.  Botolf's,  which  was 
his  gift.  The  sexton  of  St.  Botolf's  was  once  gardener  of 
Four  Oaks,  and  from  him  the  bell  received  the  name  of 


ELISABETH  WHITFIELD  BELLAMY     145 

Lonely  Tony,  a  quaint  tribute  to  its  old  master.  Super- 
stitution  had  infested  Four  Oaks  with  ghostly  terrors,  and 
the  children  of  Netherford  have  a  fancy  that  Lonely  Tony 
is  a  prisoner  in  the  church  tower,  living  on  the  pigeons 
that  build  in  the  belfry,  and  suffering  untold  torture  at 
the  hands  of  the  sexton.  Fanning  avenue  begins  at  the 
corner  where  stands  the  church,  and  leads  between  over 
arching  trees  to  a  stately  edifice  fronting  the  south.  Here 
in  days  gone  by  lived  Jacob  Fanning.  He  it  was  who 
planted  the  trees  which  shade  the  avenue,  and  he  it  was 
who  raised  the  sidewalk  of  his  avenue  in  imitation  of  the 
terraces  on  the  main  way. 


JOHN    REUBEN   THOMPSON 
1823—1873 

JOHN  REUBEN  THOMPSON  was  born  in  Rich 
mond  October  23,  1823,  and  died  in  New  York 
April  30,  1873,  and  was  buried  in  Hollywood 
Cemetery,  Richmond.  After  a  course  of  training 
in  his  native  city,  and  another  at  a  preparatory 
school  in  East  Haven,  Conn.,  he  entered  the 
academic  department  of  the  University  of  Vir 
ginia,  graduating  in  its  law  school  in  1844.  So 
decided  was  his  leaning  toward  letters  that  even 
during  his  two  years'  practice  of  law  he  contributed 
both  prose  and  verse  to  Northern  and  Southern 
periodicals,  and  in  1847  closed  with  an  offer  of  the 
editorship  of  "  The  Southern  Literary  Mes 
senger,"  a  journal  published  in  Richmond,  and  the 
South  to-day  owes  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  John  R. 
Thompson.  Nor  is  the  North  free  of  some  in 
debtedness,  for  "  The  Reveries  of  a  Bachelor " 
first  appeared  in  the  pages  of  the  "  Messenger." 
Many  of  the  poems  of  Poe  and  his  "  Critical 
Essays  "  were  published  here,  and  Park  Benjamin, 
Mrs.  Evans,  Mrs.  Osgood,  J.  M.  Legare,  R.  H. 
Stoddard,  Paul  H.  Hayne,  Margaret  Junkin 

146 


JOHN   REUBEN    THOMPSON          147 

Preston,  Lieutenant  Maury  and  many  other  excel 
lent  writers  contributed  to  this  old  Southern  maga 
zine. 

In  1854  Thompson  made  his  first  trip  abroad, 
expanding  his  own  mind  by  contact  with  the  mas 
ter  minds  of  England,  and  forming  what  proved 
to  be  lasting  friendships  with  Dickens,  Bulwer, 
Macaulay,  the  Brownings,  Thackeray,  Tennyson 
and  Carlyle.  A  series  of  sketches  of  foreign  travel 
that  gave  new  zest  to  the  pages  of  the  "  Messen 
ger  "  was  one  of  the  outcomes  of  this  sojourn. 

These  sketches,  with  revisions  and  additions, 
were  collected  in  a  volume  entitled  "  Across  the 
Atlantic."  It  had  been  consigned  to  the  binders  in 
the  publishing  house  of  Derby  &  Jackson,  New 
York,  when  the  building  took  fire  and  the  edition 
was  destroyed. 

Upon  his  return  to  America,  resuming  control 
of  the  "  Messenger,"  Thompson  contributed  to 
Northern  magazines,  recited  original  poems  be 
fore  literary  societies  and  delivered  a  series  of 
lectures  in  the  principal  cities  of  the  South,  notable 
among  which  lectures  were  those  upon  "  European 
Journalism  "  and  the  "  Life  and  Genius  of  Poe." 

In  1860  he  resigned  his  position  upon  the 
"  Messenger "  to  accept  the  more  remunerative 
one  of  editor  of  the  "  Southern  Field  and  Fire 
side,"  published  in  Augusta,  Georgia. 

A  year  later  the  war  recalled  him  to  Virginia, 


148          JOHN   REUBEN    THOMPSON 

and  debarred  by  a  constitutional  malady  from  en 
listing  in  her  defense,  his  loyalty  expressed  itself 
writing  patriotic  verse,  and  in  prose  works.  He 
wrote  unremittingly  for  the  daily  and  weekly  press, 
his  patriotism  inspiring  those  poems,  "  Coercion," 
"  On  to  Richmond,"  "  England's  Neutrality,"  "  A 
Word  to  the  West,"  "  Ashby,"  "  The  Burial  of 
Latane,"  and  the  "  Death  of  Stuart,"  praise  of 
which  echoed  across  the  Atlantic. 

Meanwhile  his  fatal  disease  made  rapid  prog 
ress,  and  in  1864,  when  he  went  to  England  for 
his  health,  he  was  carried  in  the  arms  of  friends  on 
board  the  blockade  runner  which  conveyed  him. 
It  was  feared  that  he  might  not  live  to  reach  his 
destination,  but  the  sea  air  revived  him,  and  he  im 
proved  sufficiently  to  take  a  position  on  the  edi 
torial  staff  of  "  The  Index,"  the  official  organ  of 
the  Confederacy  in  London.  He  also  sent  weekly 
letters  to  the  "  Louisville  Courier-Journal,"  and 
wrote  leaders  every  week  for  the  "  London  Stand 
ard,"  a  connection  with  which,  as  its  American 
correspondent,  he  maintained  until  his  death. 

He  contributed,  too,  to  the  "  New  Orleans 
Picayune  "  and  "  Crescent."  He  made  flying  trips 
to  Scotland  even  after  the  fall  of  the  Confederacy, 
which  ended  for  the  time  his  regular  newspaper 
connections,  but  he  continued  eighteen  months  in 
London,  preparing  for  "  Blackwood's,"  from  Von 
Borcke's  notes,  an  account  of  that  officer's  experi- 


JOHN   REUBEN    THOMPSON          149 

ence  as  chief  of  the  cavalry  corps  of  the  Army  of 
Northern  Virginia. 

Upon  his  return  to  America,  in  1866,  he  settled 
in  New  York,  where  he  was  briefly  associated  with 
William  Young,  formerly  editor  of  the  "  Albion," 
in  the  publication  of  "  Every  Afternoon." 

While  Thompson  published  no  books,  yet  his 
writings  were  widely  known  and  exerted  great  in 
fluence  on  the  literature  of  the  South.  Few  poems 
have  been  more  widely  read  since  the  Civil  War 
than: 

"  MUSIC  IN  CAMP  " 

Two  armies  covered  hill  and  plain, 

Where  Rappahannock's  waters 
Ran  deeply  crimsoned  with  the  stain 

Of  battles'  recent  slaughters. 

The  summer  clouds  lay  pitched  like  tents 

In  meads  of  heavenly  azure, 
And  each  dread  gun  of  the  elements 

Slept  in  its  hid  embrasure. 

The  breeze  so  softly  blew,  it  made 

No  forest  leaf  to  quiver, 
And  the  smoke  of  the  random  cannonade 

Rolled  slowly  from  the  river. 

And  now,  where  circling  hills  looked  down, 

With  cannon  grimly  planted, 
O'er  listless  camp  and  silent  town 

The  golden  sunset  slanted. 


150          JOHN   REUBEN    THOMPSON 

When  on  the  fervid  air  there  came 
A  strain,  now  rich,  now  tender; 

The  music  seemed  itself  aflame 
With  day's  departing  splendor. 

A  Federal  band,  which  eve  and  morn 
Played  measures  brave  and  nimble, 

Had  just  struck  up,  with  flute  and  horn, 
And  lively  clash  of  cymbal. 

Down  flocked  the  soldiers  to  the  banks, 

Till,  margined  by  its  pebbles, 
One  wooded  shore  was  blue  with  "  Yanks," 

And  one  was  gray  with  "  Rebels." 

Then  all  was  still,  and  then  the  band, 
With  movement  light  and  tricksy, 

Made  stream  and  forest,  hill  and  strand, 
Reverberate  with  "  Dixie." 

The  conscious  stream  with  burnished  glow 
Went  proudly  o'er  its  pebbles, 

But  thrilled  throughout  its  deepest  flow 
With  yelling  of  the  "  Rebels." 

Again  a  pause,  and  then  again 
The  trumpets  pealed  sonorous, 

And  "  Yankee  Doodle  "  was  the  strain 
To  which  the  shore  gave  chorus. 

The  laughing  ripple  shoreward  flew, 

To  kiss  the  shining  pebbles; 
Loud  shrieked  the  swarming  "Boys  in  Blue  " 

Defiance  to  the  "  Rebels." 


JOHN   REUBEN    THOMPSON          151 

And  yet  once  more  the  bugle  sang 

Above  the  stormy  riot; 
No  shout  upon  the  evening  rang — 

There  reigned  a  holy  quiet. 

The  sad,  slow  stream  its  noiseless  flood 
Poured  o'er  the  glistening  pebbles; 

All  silent  now  the  "  Yankees  "  stood, 
And  silent  stood  the  "  Rebels." 

No  unresponsive  soul  had  heard 

That  plaintive  note's  appealing, 
So  deeply  "  Home,  Sweet  Home  "  had  stirred 

The  hidden  founts  of  feeling. 

Or  Blue,  or  Gray,  the  soldier  sees 

As  by  the  wand  of  fairy, 
The  cottage  'neath  the  live-oak  trees, 

The  cabin  by  the  prairie. 

Or  cold,  or  warm,  his  native  skies 

Bend  in  their  beauty  o'er  him ; 
Seen  through  the  tear-mist  in  his  eyes, 

His  loved  ones  stand  before  him. 

As  fades  the  iris  after  rain 

In  April's  tearful  weather, 
The  vision  vanished,  as  the  strain 

And  daylight  died  together. 

But  memory,  waked  by  music's  art, 

Expressed  in  simplest  numbers, 
Subdued  the  sternest  "  Yankee's  "  heart, 

Made  light  the  "  Rebel's  "  slumbers. 


152          JOHN    REUBEN    THOMPSON 

And  fair  the  form  of  music  shines, 
That  bright  celestial  creature, 

Who  still,  'mid  war's  embattled  lines, 
Gave  this  one  touch  of  Nature. 


CATHERINE    ANNA    WARFIELD 
1816—1887 

THIS  gifted  lady  was  the  daughter  of  Major 
Nathaniel  A.  Ware  of  Natchez,  at  one  time  Secre 
tary  of  State  of  Mississippi.  His  wife  was  grand 
daughter  of  Captain  Charles  Percy,  of  the  British 
Navy,  who  settled  finally  on  a  grant  of  land  con 
ferred  upon  him.  His  estate  lay  near  Fort 
Adams.  He  was  widely  known  and  left  valuable 
possessions  to  his  family. 

After  his  marriage  Major  Ware  resided  at  their 
country  seat  near  Natchez.  They  had  two  chil 
dren,  the  elder,  Catherine,  being  born  in  1816.  In 
order  the  better  to  conduct  the  education  of  his 
children  Major  Ware,  after  the  death  of  his  wife, 
sold  his  plantation  and  moved  to  Philadelphia. 
Constant  companionship  with  her  father,  a  man 
of  trained  intellect,  developed  in  Catherine  poetic 
fancy  and  turned  her  mind  into  the  channel  of 
authorship. 

Early  in  life  she  married  Elisha  Warfield  of 
Lexington,  Kentucky,  a  gentleman  of  fine  family. 
In  1857  they  moved  to  a  country  home  near  Louis 
ville,  Kentucky.  About  her  earliest  attempt  at 

153 


154        CATHERINE  ANNA   WARFIELD 

authorship  was  a  book  written  by  herself  and  sis 
ter,  called  "  The  Wife  of  Leon  and  Other 
Stories."  In  1846  they  published  a  new  collection 
of  pieces  entitled  "  The  Indian  Chamber  and 
Other  Poems."  Both  these  books  show  strong 
powers  in  embryo,  and  one  sees  progress  soon  in 
depth,  range  and  construction. 

Later,  as  the  years  passed,  the  younger  sister 
died  and  Mrs.  Warfield  pursued  her  literary  work 
alone.  A  number  of  poems,  "  The  Romance  of 
Beauseincourt,"  and  several  other  novels  came 
from  her  pen,  one  among  the  most  noted  being 
"  The  Household  of  Bouverie."  "  It  was  consid 
ered  a  novel  great  in  conception  and  masterly 
in  execution.  The  story  is  bold,  sharp,  live,  mag 
netic.  Several  scenes  in  the  mysterious  cham 
ber,  the  interviews  between  Lilian  and  Erastus 
Bouverie,  with  their  pungent  pre-Raphaelite  de 
tails,  are  pictures  which,  having  once  burned  their 
way  into  the  brain,  can  never  be  forgotten.  The 
quaintness  and  originality  remind  one  of  Haw 
thorne." 

THE    HOUSE    OF   BOUVERIE 

My  grandfather's  spacious  bedroom,  ending  in  a  half- 
octagon,  formed  a  central  projection  from  the  rear  of 
the  building.  Three  doors  opened  into  this  apartment 
from  the  sides  that  joined  the  house,  and  presented  a 
stiff  array,  separated  as  they  were  by  wide  panels  lined 


CATHERINE  ANNA   WARFIELD         155 

with  windows.  The  central  door  opened  with  leaves  into 
a  square  or,  rather,  oblong  hall;  the  others,  narrowed, 
and  of  simpler  construction,  gave  into  three  rooms,  evi 
dently  partitioned  from  the  hall  for  convenience  rather 
than  symmetry,  since  the  effect  to  the  eye  must  have 
been  far  more  liberal  when  the  passage  swept  across  the 
house,  as  I  knew  afterward  it  had  originally  done.  One 
of  these  chambers,  some  twelve  feet  square  only,  yet 
lofty  and  well-ventilated,  had  been  fitted  up  for  me  with 
a  care  and  taste  that  left  nothing  to  regret,  even  when  I 
compared  it  with  the  comfort  and  luxury  of  my  former 
home.  That  which  I  supposed  to  correspond  with  it  on 
the  other  side  was  kept  strictly  locked ;  and  at  first  I  con 
ceived  it  to  be  my  grandmother's  oratory — recalling  that 
of  the  mistress  of  Taunton  Tower — or  study,  perhaps, 
where  books  and  paintings,  sacred  to  her  eye  alone,  were 
cautiously  concealed,  as  I  had  heard  was  the  custom 
among  the  authors  and  artists  of  the  world. 

But  my  grandmother,  I  soon  discovered,  was  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other;  and  when  I  found  how  simple  and 
even  homely  were  the  details  of  her  everyday  life,  I  de 
scended  from  my  pedestal  of  fancy,  and  determined  that 
this  "  Blue-Beard  chamber,"  so  mysterious  and  inaccessible 
to  me,  was  nothing  more  than  a  shy  woman's  dressing 
room.  A  deep  reticence  of  nature  seemed  to  underlie,  in  a 
very  remarkable  degree,  the  sparkling  cordiality  of  my 
grandmother's  manner.  You  stumbled  on  this  constitu 
tional  or  habitual  reserve,  accidentally  sometimes,  as  you 
might  do  on  a  stone  hid  in  a  bed  of  flowers,  and  with 
something  of  the  same  sharp,  sudden  anguish ;  but  I  am 
digressing  to  speak  of  this  now.  I  wish  to  give  at  once, 
for  reasons  that  will  be  plainer  hereafter,  as  correct  an 


156        CATHERINE  ANNA   WARFIELD 

idea  as  I  know  how  to  convey  by  words  of  the  construc 
tion  of  the  house  of  Bouverie. 

•  •  •  •  • 

I  understood  later  how  it  was  that  after  her  husband's 
death — one  of  violence  and  horror,  it  was  whispered — 
my  grandmother  had  cut  off  all  communication  with  those 
upper  rooms  which  he  had  chiefly  inhabited,  associated  in 
her  mind  as  they  were  with  bloodshed  and  self-slaughter, 
and  how,  as  the  dark  legend  crept  stealthily  around,  that 
night  after  night  he  might  still  be  heard  walking  their 
floors,  and  had  even  been  seen  descending  the  spiral  stairs 
that  linked  one  circular  hall  with  the  other,  while  the 
moon  shone  down  through  the  great  skylight,  revealing 
to  the  startled  watchers  his  ghastly  lineaments  and  spec 
tral  form — she  had  in  the  desperation  of  her  fear  and 
agony,  sealed  up  forever  those  haunted  and  accursed  cham 
bers.  For  this  purpose  the  stairway  had  been  removed, 
and  the  space  between  the  two  halls  floored  and  sealed. 
This  was  done  with  an  expedition  that  made  food  for 
conjecture  in  the  neighborhood,  having  its  origin,  doubt 
less,  in  the  almost  frenzied  terror  of  her  own  sensations, 
that  caused  her  to  spare  neither  expense  nor  urgency  to 
have  her  alterations  executed  with  dispatch.  The  work 
men  who  performed  the  task  were  summoned  from  a  dis 
tant  town,  and  spoke  a  foreign  tongue.  They  came  and 
went  like  shadows;  and  in  this  manner  she  evaded,  as 
much  as  possible,  the  neighborhood  gossip  and  espionage 
which  must  otherwise  have  so  annoyed  her  in  her  crushed 
condition.  For,  at  the  time  all  this  was  done,  my  grand 
father's  fearful  death  was  recent;  and  the  same  artisans 
who  removed  the  staircase,  sealed  away  from  sight  and 
access  those  abhorred  upper  apartments,  placed  the  sim- 


CATHERINE  ANNA   WARFIELD         157 

pie  marble  obelisk  which  bore  his  name  above  his  grave 
in  the  cedar  grove.  "  Not  one  article  was  touched  or 
brought  away,  Miss  Lilian,  that  ever  belonged  to  him," 
added  my  informant  in  low,  whispered  tones,  the  old, 
demure,  yet  gossiping  woman  who  assisted  at  my  toilet, 
and  who  had  lived  with  my  grandmother  and  cared  for 
her  ever  since  her  birth ; — "  not  one  article,  lest  a  curse 
might  cleave  to  it  and  fall  on  us;  and  still  he  may  be 
heard  at  times — don't  be  frightened,  Miss  Lilian! — walk 
ing,  walking,  the  livelong  night,  the  livelong  day  even, 
as  though  no  rest  were  granted  him,  in  the  other  world, 
who  took  no  rest  in  this." 

I  had  hidden  my  face  on  Dame  Bianca's  arm  as  she  pro 
ceeded  in  her  vague  narration,  thrilled  by  a  momentary 
terror.  Now  I  looked  up  and  was  annoyed  by  the  ex 
pression  of  her  countenance,  as  my  sudden  glance  fell 
on  it. 

"  She  is  trying  to  fool  me,"  I  thought,  "  with  this 
ghost  story,  and  to  make  a  coward  of  me,  but  I  know 
there  is  nothing  of  the  kind."  And  nerved  by  this  sudden 
conviction,  I  proceeded  to  question  her  with  more  cool 
ness  and  sagacity  than  she  could  have  expected  from  one 
evidently  so  impressed  with  her  narration  a  moment  be 
fore. 

"  What  made  my  grandfather  so  restless,  Dame  Bi- 
anca?"  I  asked.  "Was  he  unhappy  and  wicked,  or 
only  busy?" 

"Ah,  child!  all — wretched  enough,  I  daresay,  when 
he  stopped  to  think  of  his  misdeeds,  and  always  busy  as 
any  working-bee  in  summer  time.  Busy  with  hand  and 
brain,  with  pen  and  sword,  with  drug  and  pistol,  read 
ing  and  thinking,  plotting  and  contriving,  and  trampling 


158        CATHERINE  ANNA   WARFIELD 

over  every  one  that  stood  in  his  way  without  mercy  or 
fear." 

•  •  •  •  • 

It  was  on  the  day  after  my  arrival  that,  sitting  at  the 
supper  table,  during  a  long  pause  in  the  conversation, 
while  my  grandmother  was  especially  engaged  with  her 
coffee-urn,  I  was  shaken  by  one  of  those  unreasonable 
fits  of  laughter  common  to  excitable  children. 

"  What  amuses  you,  Lilian  ? "  asked  Dr.  Quintil. 
"  Come,  give  us  your  merry  thought,  and  we  will  pluck  it 
together." 

"  Oh,  Dr.  Quintil,  I  was  thinking  how  funny  it  was — 
and  I  never  thought  of  it  till  this  minute,  which  makes 
it  funnier  still — that  my  Uncle  Jasper  has  never  spoken 
one  word  to  me  since  I  came  to  Bouverie!  Not  one 
word,  Mr.  Jasper,  have  you  said  to  your  niece  since 
she  came  to  live  with  you,  either  for  good  or  bad," 
and  I  shook  my  finger  playfully  at  him  across  the 
table. 

He  gazed  at  me  a  moment  earnestly,  and  then  suffered 
his  forehead  to  droop  into  his  hands.  Had  I  offended 
him  ?  I  looked  anxiously  at  Dr.  Quintil ;  he,  too,  was 
pale  and  grave,  and  averted  his  eyes  from  mine.  My 
grandmother  alone  retained  her  self-possession. 

"  My  child,"  she  said,  "  in  this  house  above  all  others, 
learn  to  be  discreet.  It  is  our  misfortune  to  be  an  af 
flicted  household — Jasper  has  never  spoken" 

I  dropped  the  untasted  food,  and,  in  a  passion  of  grief 
and  mortification,  I  slid  from  the  table,  and  lay  with 
my  face  on  the  floor.  I  was  raised  by  kindly  hands. 
Jasper  held  me  in  his  arms. 

"  Oh,  what  have  I  done!  "  I  said.    "  I  did  not  know — 


CATHERINE  ANNA   WARFIELD         159 

indeed  I  did  not  know — that  one  might  hear  and  still  be 
dumb.  Poor  Uncle  Jasper!  Can  you  forgive  me?  " 

Words  never  spoke  as  his  eyes  spoke  to  me  then.  I 
have  since  believed  that  in  the  spirit  world  there  will  be 
no  need  of  speech,  but  that  light,  shining  from  each  heav 
enly  visage,  shall  reveal  whatever  the  immortal  essence 
seeks  to  communicate,  and  words  be  put  away  with  other 
bonds  of  the  flesh.  He  held  me  to  his  bosom  long,  for 
my  feelings,  when  once  vividly  aroused,  were  not  easily 
consoled  to  quiet  again;  and  they  told  me  that  on  that 
home  of  peace  I  sobbed  myself  to  rest. 

Jasper — my  Jasper — from  that  hour  I  loved  thee  as 
entirely  as  I  shall  do  when  we  meet  at  the  feet  of  God! 


IRWIN    RUSSELL 

1853—1879 

THIS  poet  was  born  in  Port  Gibson,  Mississippi, 
and  was  among  the  first  of  Southern  writers  to 
recognize  the  possibilities  of  negro  dialect  and 
character  in  poetry  and  fiction,  and  to  picture  in 
poetry  the  unique  relation  between  the  Southern 
slave  and  his  master. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  there  is  very  little  gen 
eral  knowledge  of  this  gifted  man,  for  he  passed 
away  quickly,  after  a  brief  struggle  with  life,  leav 
ing  only  one  collection  of  poems,  which  was  pub 
lished  after  his  death. 

Irwin  Russell's  grandfather  was  a  Virginian, 
but  moved  West  to  Ohio,  in  which  State  the  father 
of  Irwin  was  born  and  lived.  He  married  a  New 
York  lady,  and  then  going  South,  settled  in  Port 
Gibson,  where  Irwin  and  two  other  children  were 
born.  At  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War,  Russell's 
father  cast  his  lot  with  the  Confederacy,  and  after 
the  war  ended  the  son  Irwin  was  sent  to  the  St. 
Louis  University  in  St.  Louis,  a  school  conducted 
by  Jesuit  Fathers.  Here  he  became  a  diligent  stu 
dent,  and  his  young  friends  called  him  a  "  walking 

160 


IRWIN    RUSSELL  161 

encyclopedia."  He  also  gave  evidence  of  fine 
mathematical  powers. 

After  graduation  he  returned  to  Mississippi, 
studied  and  practiced  law.  He  was  in  Port  Gibson 
during  the  yellow  fever  epidemic,  in  1878,  and  he 
remained  through  the  whole  dreadful  tragedy  of 
sickness,  and  served  as  a  devoted  nurse.  He 
never  fully  rallied  from  the  fearful  strain  and  the 
harrowing  scenes  through  which  he  passed,  "  for 
he  was,"  says  W.  M.  Baskerville,  "  that  rare 
union  of  bright  mind  with  frail  body,  through 
which  the  keenest  appreciation  and  most  exquisite 
sensibility  are  developed." 

His  father,  Dr.  William  Russell,  who  had  also 
remained  in  Port  Gibson  during  the  scourge,  stay 
ing  nobly  at  his  post  of  duty,  sank  under  the  labor 
and  died.  This  left  young  Russell  entirely  de 
pendent  upon  himself. 

Joel  Chandler  Harris  says:  "Russell  always 
had  warm  personal  friends  from  whom  he  could 
command  everything  that  affection  could  suggest." 

Going  to  New  York,  Irwin  Russell  took  some 
literary  matter  to  the  publishing  house  of  Charles 
Scribner  &  Sons,  who  received  him  with  great  per 
sonal  kindness. 

He  became  very  ill  with  fever  in  New  York,  and 
before  he  was  entirely  recovered  he  worked  his 
passage  on  a  boat  back  to  New  Orleans,  where  he 
landed  almost  without  money.  He  applied  for 


1 62  IRWIN    RUSSELL 

work  at  "  The  Times  "  office  of  that  city,  obtained 
employment,  and  later  became  connected  with  the 
paper. 

For  one  so  young,  Russell  gave  remarkable  evi 
dence  of  training  in  the  best  of  literature.  He  was 
capable  of  hard,  painstaking  study,  and  his  insight 
into  the  peculiarities,  pathos,  and  poetry  in  the 
negro  character  was  truly  wonderful. 

Thomas  Nelson  Page  says  of  him:  "  Personally 
I  owe  him  much.  It  was  the  light  of  his  genius 
shining  through  his  dialect  poems  that  led  my  feet 
in  the  direction  I  have  since  tried  to  follow,"  and 
Dr.  C.  A.  Smith  says:  "The  appearance  of 
'  Christmas  Night  in  the  Quarters  '  meant  that 
Southern  literature  has  now  become  a  true  repro 
duction  of  Southern  conditions." 

Joel  Chandler  Harris  says:  "  Irwin  Russell's 
negro  character  studies  rise  to  the  level  of  what  in 
a  large  way  we  term  literature.  I  do  not  know 
where  there  could  be  a  more  perfect  representation 
of  negro  character.  His  operetta  '  Christmas 
in  the  Quarters '  is  inimitable." 

Beginning  with  the  arrival  of  the  negroes  who 
come  to  "  Uncle  Johnny  Booker's  Ball  "  the  poem, 
"  Christmas  Night  in  the  Quarters,"  says: 

That  through  the  din  one  hardly  hears 

Old  fiddling  'Josey  sound  his  A, 
Correct  the  pitch,  begin  to  play. 

Then  the  dance  commences. 


IRWIN    RUSSELL  163 

"  Git  yo'  pardners,  fust  kwatillion ; 

Stomp  yo'  feet,  an'  raise  'em  high  ; 
Tune  is,  '  Oh,  that  water-million ; 
Gwine  to  git  to  home  bime-by.'  ' 

As  daylight  approaches,  the  tired  dancers  call 
for  a  song  from  old  Booker,  who  with  his  banjo 
sings  the  legend  of  the  origin  of  that  instrument. 
Repeating  the  story  of  the  Ark,  Uncle  Booker 
says:  "  Ham  got  lonesome," 

An'  so  fur  amuse  he-self,  he  steamed  some  wood  an'  bent 

it, 

An'  soon  he  had  a  banjo  made,  de  fust  that  was  invented. 
He  strung  her,  tuned  her,  struck  a  jig, 

'Twas  "  Neber  min'  the  wedder  "  ; 
She  seem  like  forty-lebben  bands  a-playin'  all  togedder; 
Some  went  to  pattin',  some  to  dancin',  Noah  called  the 

riggers  ; 

An'  Ham  he  sot  and  knocked  de  tune, 
De  happiest  ob  niggers. 


Russell  declared  the  pathos  and  humor  in  the 
character  of  the  real  old-fashioned  negro  of  the 
South  afforded  an  inexhaustible  amount  of  material 
for  both  prose  and  poetry. 

Like  Sidney  Lanier,  Russell  was  passionately 
fond  of  music  and  became  a  remarkably  skilful 
performer  on  the  banjo. 

Irwin  Russell  died  at  the  early  age  of  twenty- 


164  IRWIN    RUSSELL 

six.  Suffering  and  sorrow  and  poverty  were  his 
till  the  last.  The  brief  struggle  ended  in  New 
Orleans,  and  the  beautiful  contributions  to  South 
ern  dialect  poetry  remain  our  heritage.  Works : 
"  Dialect  Poems." 

Irwin  Russell  himself  tells  why  he  could  so 
faithfully  reproduce  the  life  and  feelings  of  the 
negro  in  the  following  quotation: 

You  couldn't  talk  so  natchel 

'Bout  de  niggers'  sorrows  an'  joys 
Widouten  you'd  had  a  black  mammy 

To  sing  to  you  long  is  youse  a  boy. 

Regarding  the  merits  of  Irwin  Russell's  verses 
one  critic  says :  "  It  seems  to  me  that  his  poems 
are  to  negro  dialect  what  Gottschalk's  music  is  to 
negro  melody.  They  have  all  a  swinging  gait,  and 
you  can  hear  the  rhythmical  pattering  of  the  feet, 
and  see  the  swaying  of  the  darky  figures  in  the 
'  walk-round  '  as  you  read : 

CHRISTMAS  NIGHT  IN  THE  QUARTERS 

Git  yo'  pardners,  fust  kwatillion! 

Stomp  yo'  feet,  an'  raise  'em  high ; 
Tune  is,  "  Oh,  dat  water-million! 

Gwine  to  git  to  home  bime-bye." 
S'lute  yo'  pardners! — scrape  perlitely — 

Don't  be  bumpin'  'gin  de  res' — 


IRWIN    RUSSELL  165 

Balance  all!  now,  step  out  rightly; 

Alluz  dance  yo'  lebbel  bes'. 
Fo'wa'd  foah !    Whoop  up,  niggers ! 

Back  ag'in ! — don't  be  so  slow ! — 
Swing  cornahs! — min'  de  figgers! 

When  I  hollers,  den  yo'  go. 
Top  ladies  cross  ober! 

Hands  around — hoi'  up  yo'  faces; 

Don't  be  lookin'  at  .yo'  feet ! 
Swing  yo'  pardners  to  yo'  places! 

Dat's  de  way — -dat's  hard  to  beat. 
Sides  fo'wa'd ! — when  you's  ready — 

Make  a  bow  as  low's  you  kin ! 
Swing  acrost  wid  opp'site  lady! 

Now  we'll  let  you  swap  ag'in: 
Ladies  change ! — shet  up  dat  talkin' ; 

Do  yo'  talkin'  arter  while ! 
Right  an'  lef! — don't  want  no  walkin' — •     . 

Make  yo'  steps,  an'  show  yo'  style! 

BLIND    NED 

Who  is  dat  ar  a-playin'?    Shucks!     I  wish  I  wuzn't  blin' ; 
But  when  de  Lord  he  tuk  my  eyes,  he  lef  my  yeahs  be- 

hin'. 
Is    dat   you,    Mahsr   Bob?    I    t'ought    I    rec'nized    your 

bowin' ; 
I  said  I  knowed  'twas  you,  soon's  I  heered  de  fiddle  goin'. 

Sho!  dat  ain't  right!    Jes'  le'  me  show  you  how  to  play 
dat  tune; 


166  IRWIN    RUSSELL 

I  feel  like  I  could  make  de  fiddle  talk  dis  arternoon. 
Now  don't  you  see  that  counter's  jes'  a  leetle  bit  too  high? 
Well,  nebber  min',  I  guess  you'll  learn  to  tune  her  by 
an'  by. 

You's  jes'  like  all  musicianers  dat  learns  to  play  by  note; 
You  ain't  got  music  in  you,  so  you  has  to  hab  it  wrote. 
Now  dat  ain't  science — why  de  debbil  don't  you  play  by 

yeah? 
For  dat's  de  onlies'  kin'  ob  music  fittin'  fur  to  heah. 

Do  you  suppose,  when  David  wuz  a-pickin'  on  de  harp, 
He  ebber  knowed  de  difference  atwixt  a  flat  an'  a  sharp? 
But  any  tune  you  called  for,  he  could  pick  it  all  de  same, 
For  David  knowed  de  music,  dough  he  didn't  know  de 
name. 

Now  what  shall  I  begin  on?     Somefm'  lively,  fas',  and 

quick  ? 
Well,  sah,  jes'  pay  attention,  an'   I'll   gib  you  "  Cap'n 

Dick." 
Yah!  yah!  young  mahsr,  don't  you  feel  jes'  like  you  want 

to  pat? 
You'll  hab  to  practice  fur  a  while  afore  you  ekals  dat! 

Dere  ain't  nobody  'roun'  dis  place  kin  play  wid  Uncle 

Ned; 

Dey  isn't  got  it  in  deir  ringers,  neider  in  deir  head ; 
Dat  fiddler  Bill  dey  talks  about — I  heered  him  play  a 

piece, 
An'  I  declar'  it  sounded  like  a  fox  among  de  geese. 


IRWIN    RUSSELL  167 

A  violeen  is  like  an  'ooman,  mighty  hard  to  guide, 
An'  mighty  hard  to  keep  in  order  after  once  it's  buyed. 
Dere's  alluz  somefin'  'bout  it  out  ob  kelter,  more  or  less, 
An'  'tain't  de  fancies'-lookin'  ones  dat  alluz  does  de  bes'. 

Dis  ye's  a  splendid  inst'ument — I  'spec'  it  cost  a  heap; 
You  r'al'y  ought  to  let  me  hab  dis  riddle  fur  to  keep. 
It  ain't  no  use  to  you,  sah ;  fur,  widout  it's  in  de  man, 
He  cain't  git  music  out  de  fines'  riddle  in  de  Ian'. 

Well,  good-bye,  Mahsr  Bob,  sah;  when  you's  nuffin  else 

to  do, 

Jes'  sen'  fur  dis  ol'  darky,  an'  he'll  come  an'  play  fur  you ; 
An'  don't  gib  up  your  practicin' — you's  only  sebenteen, 
An'  maybe  when  you's  ol'  as  me  you'll  play  the  violeen 

By  permission  of  Miss  Mary  Russell  and  Century  Co,, 
New  York. 


GEORGE    WASHINGTON    CABLE 

1844 

THE  "  Land  of  the  Creole  "  is  the  name  some 
times  given  to  lower  Louisiana,  and  here  in  the 
cosmopolitan  city  of  New  Orleans  was  born  the 
subject  of  this  sketch.  On  his  father's  side  he  is 
descended  from  an  old  colonial  family  of  Virginia, 
the  Cabells.  The  name  was  originally  spelled 
Cable,  and  their  coat-of-arms  introduces  the  cable 
upon  its  design. 

Cable's  maternal  ancestors  were  from  New  Eng 
land.  His  parents  were  married  in  Indiana,  and 
came  to  New  Orleans  to  live.  The  father  died  in 
1859,  leaving  the  family  in  very  straitened  circum 
stances.  George  W.  Cable,  then  only  fourteen 
years  old,  had  to  leave  school  just  as  he  was  about 
to  graduate,  in  order  to  accept  a  clerkship  which 
would  enable  him  to  support  the  family. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  Civil  War  Cable  entered 
the  army,  although  only  a  youth,  serving  in  Col 
onel  Wilburn's  Fourth  Mississippi  Cavalry  of 
General  Wirt  Adams'  brigade.  Army  comrades 
speak  of  the  young  volunteer  as  being  a  good  sol 
dier,  scrupulously  observant  of  discipline,  always 

168 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  CABLE        169 

at  his  post  of  duty,  and  courageous  and  daring.  In 
one  engagement  he  received  a  serious  wound  in  the 
left  arm,  and  narrowly  escaped  being  killed.  The 
close  of  the  war  found  him  without  a  dollar,  and 
he  began  work  in  New  Orleans  as  an  errand  boy, 
and  then  was  promoted  to  a  clerkship.  Through 
all  this  arduous  and  uncongenial  labor,  Cable  was 
untiring  in  effort  to  acquire  an  education.  He  be 
gan  his  first  literary  work  writing  for  the  "  New 
Orleans  Picayune,"  over  the  name  of  "  Drop 
Shot,"  and  after  a  time  he  became  one  of  the  edi 
torial  staff  of  this  fine  old  paper.  From  religious 
scruples  he  refused  to  report  entertainments, 
thereby  losing  his  position,  but  he  soon  obtained  a 
situation  as  accountant  with  a  firm  of  cotton  fac 
tors.  Mr.  Cable  jotted  down,  while  at  his  desk, 
busy  with  invoices  and  figures,  every  incident  and 
conceit  that  came  with  his  intercourse  among  men 
of  all  classes,  and  from  stray  bits  of  Creole  life; 
thus  developing  his  rare  talent  for  insight  into 
human  character  and  motive.  About  this  time  he 
wrote  "  The  Belles  Damoiselle  Plantation," 
"  Tite  Polite,"  "  Jean  ah  Poquelin,"  "  Cafe  des 
Exiles,"  and  "  Madame  Delicieuse."  These 
early  stories  made  a  revelation  of  two  facts — that 
there  was  a  wonderful  and  new  field  of  romance 
in  Creole  life  and  dialect,  and  that  Cable  could 
tell  a  story  well. 

"  In  '  Madame  Delphine,'  which  was  published 


170        GEORGE  WASHINGTON  CABLE 

in  1 88 1,  we  see  a  perfect  specimen  of  this  writer's 
art  in  literary  construction.  The  narrative  is 
handled  so  skilfully  that  the  reader  is  unaware  of 
its  utter  impossibility." 

"  Dr.  Sevier  "  is  a  beautiful  story  of  great  lit 
erary  merit,  with  the  added  grace  of  simplicity. 
In  the  experiences  of  John  Richling  it  has  been 
said  that  Mr.  Cable,  in  some  measure,  gave  his 
own  history.  There  was  this  difference  be 
tween  the  writer  and  his  hero,  John  Richling:  the 
former  made  a  success  of  whatever  he  attempted, 
while  in  the  story,  poor  Richling  was  a  failure. 
The  writer  who  could  describe  Ristofalo  with  his 
happy  disregard  of  trouble,  Narcisse,  "  dear,  de 
licious,  abominable  Narcisse,"  and  Mary,  bright, 
brave  and  loving,  and  Dr.  Sevier,  the  physician, 
noble,  generous  and  capable,  yet  tender  as  a 
woman,  was  certainly  a  master  in  the  realms  of 
fiction. 

Some  of  Mr.  Cable's  later  works  have  received 
much  criticism  from  the  South,  but  the  beauty  of 
his  other  writings  remains  untarnished.  He  now 
lives  near  Northampton,  Massachusetts.  Here  he 
indulges  his  tastes  for  birds,  flowers  and  trees. 
Tree  culture  is  one  of  his  hobbies,  and  with  quaint 
idea  he  has  trees  planted  by  well-known  friends 
and  guests  and  named  after  them,  for  instance: 
The  Beecher  Elm;  the  Max  O'Rell  Ash;  the 
Conan  Doyle  Maple. 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  CABLE        171 

His  best  known  works  are:  "Old  Creole 
Days,"  "  The  Grandissimes,"  "  Madame  Del- 
phine,"  "  The  Creoles  of  Louisiana,"  "  Dr. 
Sevier,"  "  The  Silent  South,"  "  Bonaventure," 
"  The  Negro  Question,"  "  Strange  True  Stones 
of  Louisiana,"  "  John  March,  Southerner," 
"Strong  Hearts,"  "The  Cavalier,"  "  Bylow 
Hill." 

Henrietta  Christian  Wright  says :  "  '  The  Gran 
dissimes  '  made  Cable  famous,  although  it  elicited 
much  adverse  criticism  from  readers  who  denied 
its  truthfulness  as  a  picture  of  old  Creole  days, 
yet  it  must  be  considered  one  of  the  best  works  of 
fiction  in  the  South.  It  has  been  followed  by  in 
numerable  transcriptions  of  Southern  life  from 
other  hands,  but  to  the  author  of  '  Grandis 
simes  '  must  always  remain  the  credit  of  being 
the  pioneer  in  the  fascinating  world  of  Creole 
romance." 

To  the  Acadian  settlements  in  the  lower  Lou 
isiana  prairies  Mr.  Cable  went  for  inspiration  for 
his  novel  "  Bonaventure."  The  hero,  Bonaven 
ture,  was  an  orphan  boy,  who  was  being  brought 
up  by  the  village  cure.  This  was  the  first  time 
since  Longfellow  wrote  "  Evangeline  "  that  the 
story  and  character  of  the  Acadians  were  again 
used  for  romance  in  literature.  Mr.  Cable  spent 
much  time  hunting  among  old  records  and  his 
torical  documents,  newspapers  and  government 


i?2        GEORGE  WASHINGTON  CABLE 

reports,   and  sifted  out  material   for  his   articles 
called  "  The  Creoles  of  Louisiana." 

This  selection  from  "  Au  Large  "  is  a  descrip 
tion  of  Nature  in  a  "  transport  of  passion,"  and 
then  in  her  hour  of  calmness.  Mr.  Cable  closes 
the  extract  with  fine  psychological  thought. 

"AU   LARGE" 

Soon  the  stars  are  hidden.  A  light  breeze  seems  rather 
to  tremble  and  hang  poised  than  to  blow.  The  rolling 
clouds,  the  dark  wilderness,  and  the  watery  waste  shine 
every  moment  in  the  wide  gleam  of  lightnings  still  hidden 
by  the  wood,  and  are  wrapped  again  in  ever-thickening 
darkness,  over  which  thunders  roll  and  jar  and  answer 
one  another  across  the  sky.  Then,  like  a  charge  of  ten 
thousand  lancers,  come  the  wind  and  the  rain,  their  onset 
covered  by  all  the  artillery  of  heaven.  The  lightnings 
leap,  hiss,  and  blaze;  the  thunders  crack  and  roar;  the 
rain  lashes;  the  waters  writhe;  the  wind  smites  and 
howls.  For  five,  for  ten,  for  twenty  minutes — for  an 
hour,  for  two  hours — the  sky  and  the  flood  are  never 
for  an  instant  wholly  dark,  or  the  thunder  for  one  mo 
ment  silent ;  but  while  the  universal  roar  sinks  and  swells 
and  the  wide,  vibrant  illumination  shows  all  things  in 
ghostly  half-concealment,  fresh  floods  of  lightning  every 
moment  rend  the  dim  curtain  and  leap  forth;  the  glare 
of  day  falls  upon  the  swaying  wood,  the  reeling,  bowing, 
tossing  willows,  the  seething  waters,  the  whirling  rain, 
and  in  the  midst  the  small  form  of  the  distressed  steamer, 
her  revolving  paddle-wheels  toiling  behind  to  lighten  the 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  CABLE        173 

strain  upon  her  anchor  chains;  then  all  are  dim  ghosts 
again,  while  a  peal,  as  if  the  heavens  were  rent,  rolls  off 
around  the  sky,  comes  back  in  shocks  and  throbs,  and 
sinks  in  a  long  roar  that,  before  it  can  die,  is  swallowed 
up  in  the  next  flash  and  peal. 

A  few  hours  later  the  winds  were  still,  the  stars  were 
out,  a  sweet  silence  had  fallen  upon  water  and  wood, 
and  from  her  deck  the  watchman  on  the  steamer  could 
see  in  the  northeastern  sky  a  broad,  soft  illumination,  and 
knew  it  was  the  lights  of  slumbering  New  Orleans,  eight 
een  miles  away.  By  and  by,  farther  to  the  east,  another 
brightness  began  to  grow  and  gather  this  light  into  its 
outstretched  -wings.  In  the  nearest  wood  a  soft  twitter 
came  from  a  single  tiny  bird.  Another  voice  answered 
it.  A  different  note  came  from  a  third  quarter;  there 
were  three  or  four  replies;  the  sky  turned  to  blue  and 
began  to  flush;  a  mocking-bird  flew  out  of  the  woods  on 
her  earliest  quest  for  family  provisions;  and  a  thrush 
began  to  sing,  and  in  a  moment  more  the  whole  forest 
was  one  choir. 

What  wonderful  purity  was  in  the  fragrant  air ;  what 
color  was  on  the  calm  waters  and  in  the  deep  sky;  how 
beautiful,  how  gentle  was  Nature  after  her  transport  of 
passion !  Shall  we  ever  subdue  her  and  make  her  always 
submissive  and  compliant?  Who  knows?  Who  knows 
what  man  may  do  with  her  when  once  he  has  got  self, 
the  universal  self,  under  perfect  mastery?  See  yonder 
huge  bull-alligator  swimming  hitherward  out  of  the 
swamp!  Even  as  you  point  he  turns  again  in  alarm  and 
is  gone.  Once  he  was  man's  terror,  Leviathan.  The  very 
lions  of  Africa  and  the  grizzlies  of  the  Rockies,  so  they 
tell  us,  are  no  longer  the  bold  enemies  of  man  they  once 


174        GEORGE  WASHINGTON  CABLE 

were.  "  Subdue  the  earth !  "  It  is  being  done.  Science 
and  art,  commerce  and  exploration,  are  but  parts  of  re 
ligion.  Help  us,  brothers  all,  with  every  possible  discov 
ery  and  invention  to  complete  the  conquest  begun  in  that 
lost  garden  whence  man  and  woman  first  came  forth,  not 
for  vengeance,  but  for  love,  to  bruise  the  serpent's  head. 
But  as  yet  both  within  us  and  without  us,  what  terrible 
revolt  doth  Nature  make!  What  awful  victories  doth 
she  have  over  us,  and  then  turn  and  bless  and  serve  us 
again.  .  .  . 

By  permission   of  author. 


HENRY    TIMROD 

1829—1867 

THIS  noted  writer  was  a  descendant  of  an  old 
German  family,  and  was  born  in  Charleston,  South 
Carolina.  His  father,  William  Henry  Timrod, 
who  held,  with  distinction,  many  positions  of 
honor,  was  married  to  a  Miss  Prince  and  died 
from  exposure  during  the  Florida  War  with  the 
Seminole  Indians.  This  father,  with  German  thrift 
and  tenacity  of  purpose,  "  voluntarily  apprenticed 
himself  to  a  book-binder  in  order  to  have  plenty 
of  books  to  read."  Henry  Timrod  inherited  his 
father's  love  of  books  and  his  determination  of 
character.  He  entered  the  University  of  Georgia, 
but  extreme  poverty  prevented  him  from  finishing 
the  course  of  study.  However,  not  discouraged 
by  his  lack  of  money,  he  returned  to  Charleston 
with  the  intention  of  studying  law,  which  soon  be 
came  distasteful  to  him.  He  then  endeavored  to 
prepare  for  a  college  professorship,  but  failing  in 
this,  he  turned  his  attention  to  writing  and  jour 
nalism,  in  the  meantime  supporting  himself  by 
teaching  in  private  families.  He  taught  for  ten 
years. 

175 


176  HENRY    TIMROD 

His  first  book  of  poems,  published  in  Boston 
in  1860,  was  cordially  received  in  the  United 
States  and  would  have  been  published  in  London 
had  it  not  been  for  the  "  turmoil  of  civil  strife  " 
at  that  time.  With  heart  aflame  with  loyalty  to 
his  State,  Timrod  voluntereed  as  a  private  in  the 
Southern  army,  and  during  this  time  he  wrote 
"  Carolina,"  "  The  Cotton  Ball,"  and  "  The  Call 
to  Arms,"  poems  that  did  much  to  influence  the 
people  of  South  Carolina. 

Failing  health  compelled  him  to  abandon  active 
service  as  a  soldier,  and  he  undertook  the  work  of 
war  correspondent,  first  representing  "  The 
Charleston  Mercury,"  then  in  1864  he  went  to 
Columbia  and  became  editor  of  "  The  South  Caro 
linian."  About  this  time  he  married  Miss  Kate 
Goodwin,  the  "  Katie"  of  whom  he. wrote  in  his 
poems. 

Julian  W.  Abernethy,  Ph.  D.,  Principal  of  the 
Berkley  Institution,  Brooklyn,  says :  "  In  less  than 
a  year  came  Sherman's  army,  cutting  its  terrible 
swath  to  the  sea,  and  Timrod  was  left  destitute. 
A  few  months  later  his  idolized  child  died,  and  in 
the  little  grave  a  large  portion  of  the  father's 
heart  was  buried."  Before  another  three  years 
had  flitted  past,  the  tired  body  of  Henry  Timrod 
slumbered  beside  his  son  in  Trinity  churchyard, 
Columbia. 


HENRY    TIMROD  177 

As  it  purples  in  the  zenith, 

As  it  brightens  on  the  lawn, 
There's  a  hush  of  death  about  me, 

And  a  whisper,  "  He  is  gone." 


Henry  Timrod  was  "  The  poet  of  the  Lost 
Cause,  the  finest  interpreter  of  the  feelings  and 
traditions  and  heroism  of  a  brave  people.  More 
over,  by  his  catholic  spirit,  his  wide  range,  his 
world-wide  sympathies,  he  was  a  true  American 
poet." 

The  first  edition  of  his  poems,  published  in 
1860,  contained  only  the  verses  written  in  early 
years,  but  they  found  a  welcome  North  and  South. 
The  next  volume  was  not  brought  out  till  1873, 
when  the  struggle  during  ,the  reconstruction  period 
was  too  stern  for  the  full  appreciation  of  literature, 
though  the  edition  was  quickly  bought  up,  as  also 
a  beautiful  edition  of  "  Katie  "  published  by  Hale 
&  Sons  a  little  later. 

The  poet's  mother,  who  was  a  daughter  of  Mr. 
Charles  Prince  of  Charleston,  was  a  lady  of  rare 
culture  and  had  a  passionate  love  for  flower  and 
forest,  sky  and  field,  and  from  her  Timrod  in 
herited  a  mind  susceptible  to  every  touch  of  beauty. 
He  was  a  close  student  of  all  classic  literature. 
While  of  a  modest,  retiring  disposition,  he  was  a 
man  who  loved  his  friends,  and  among  the  many 


178  HENRY    TIM  ROD 

who  knew  him  probably  his  strongest  affection  was 
for  the  companion  of  his  boyhood  and  life-long 
confidant,  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne.  When  the 
Civil  War  ended  Timrod  was  left  with  failing 
health  and  utterly  bankrupt  financially.  He  clung 
passionately  to  his  chosen  work;  even  the  death  of 
his  beloved  son  and  the  merciless  ravages  of  disease 
did  not  rob  his  pen  of  beauty.  His  last  occupation 
was  to  correct  the  proof  sheets  of  his  poems,  and 
he  died  with  them  by  his  side,  stained  with  his 
life-blood. 

Some  of  the  happiest  days  of  Timrod's  life  were 
those  spent  at  "  Copse  Hill,"  the  home  of  his 
friend  Hayne,  and  the  pathos  of  his  letters  to  him, 
when  he  writes  freely  of  sickness,  of  utter  destitu 
tion,  is  inexpressibly  sorrowful. 

"  Timrod's  earnestness  and  deep  poetic  insight 
clothed  all  themes  with  the  beauty  and  light," 
whether  of  humanity  or  nature,  and  the  moral 
purity  of  everything  he  wrote  is  a  marked  quality 
of  his  poems. 

"  Ethnogenesis  "  is  said  by  many  to  be  his  finest 
poem. 

"  Spring  "  is  a  burst  of  Southern  spring  in  all 
its  glory. 

"  Carolina  "  and  "  A  Call  to  Arms  "  have  even 
to-day,  as  in  the  sixties,  a  meaning  to  men  of  the 
South,  "  which  knows  and  thrills,"  and  also  "  they 
have  an  abiding  power  from  the  standpoint  of 


HENRY    TIMROD  179 

art,  for  there  is  nothing  finer  in  all  the  martial 
strains  of  the  lyric." 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  tells  how  the  words  of 
"  Carolina  "  thrilled  him  by  their  pathos  and 
power,  when  he  read  them  first  one  stormy  March 
evening  in  Fort  Sumter. 

Timrod's  last  poem  was  the  Ode  written  for 
Memorial  Day,  April,  1867. 

There  is  no  holier  spot  of  ground 
Than  where  defeated  valor  lies, 
By  morning  beauty  crowned. 

The  keen  sensitiveness  of  Timrod's  soul  to  all 
nature,  even  the  "  tiniest  flower,"  is  beautifully 
expressed  in  these  lines: 

And  when  in  wild  or  thoughtless  hour 
My  Maud  hath  crushed  the  tiniest  flower, 

I  ne'er  could  shut  from  sight 
The  corpses  of  the  tender  things, 
With  other  drear  imaginings, 
And  the  little  angel-flowers  with  wings 

Would  haunt  me  through  the  night. 

The  feelings  of  all  Southern  hearts  are  told  in 
the  lines : 

Sleep  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves, 
Sleep,  martyrs  of  a  fallen  cause, 

Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 
The  pilgrim  here  to  pause. 


i8o  HENRY    TIMROD 

In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth 

The  blossom  of  your  fame  is  blown, 

And  somewhere,  waiting  for  its  birth, 
The  shaft  is  in  the  stone. 

A  beautiful  monument  was  unveiled  at  Charles 
ton,  in  1901,  in  honor  of  the  poet. 

On  October  6,  1867,  Henry  Timrod  passed 
from  earth  at  his  little  cottage  home  on  Hender 
son  Street,  Columbia,  South  Carolina,  and  was 
buried  October  7.  The  house  is  still  standing, 
having  escaped  the  cruel  and  needless  conflagration 
in  1865. 

"  At  the  end  of  a  generation  the  poet's  fame 
keeping  its  freshness  and  fidelity  has  come  to  full 
maturity;  his  poems  are  read  in  every  State  and 
they  are  now  asked  for  in  Canada." 

'  Through  clouds  and  sunshine,  in  peace  and 
in  war,  amid  the  stress  of  poverty  and  the  storms 
of  civil  strife,  his  soul  never  faltered  and  his  pur 
pose  never  failed.  To  his  poetic  mission  he  was 
faithful  to  the  end.  In  life  and  in  death  he  was 
not  disobedient  to  the  heavenly  vision."  This  is 
the  inscription  on  the  west  panel  of  his  monument 
in  Charleston. 

Lanier  calls  Timrod's  name,  u  One  of  the  very 
sweetest  names  connected  with  Charleston,"  and 
Hayne  says :  "  His  compositions,  with  all  their 
elegance,  finish,  and  superb  propriety  of  diction, 
always  leave  the  impression  of  having  been  born, 
not  manufactured." 


HENRY    TIMROD  181 

The  following  excerpt  is  taken  from  a  poem 
written  complimentary  to  his  wife,  her  name  being 
Kate. 

KATIE 

It  may  be  through  some  foreign  grace, 

And  unfamiliar  charm  of  face ; 

It  may  be  that  across  the  foam 

Which  bore  her  from  her  childhood's  home, 

By  some  strange  spell,  my  Katie  brought, 

Along  with  English  creeds  and  thought — 

Entangled  in  her  golden  hair — > 

Some  English  sunshine,  warmth,  and  air! 

I  cannot  tell — but  here  to-day, 

A  thousand  billowy  leagues  away 

From  that  green  isle  whose  twilight  skies 

No  darker  are  than  Katie's  eyes, 

She  seems  to  me,  go  where  she  will, 

An  English  girl  in  England  still ! 

I  meet  her  on  the  dusty  street, 

And  daisies  spring  about  her  feet ; 

Or,  touched  to  life  beneath  her  tread, 

An  English  cowslip  lifts  its  head; 

And,  as  to  do  her  grace,  rise  up 

The  primrose  and  the  buttercup ! 

I  roam  with  her  through  fields  of  cane, 
And  seem  to  stroll  an  English  lane, 
Which,  white  with  blossoms  of  the  May, 
Spreads  its  green  carpet  in  her  way ! 
As  fancy  wills,  the  path  beneath 
Is  golden  gorse,  or  purple  heath; 


182  HENRY    TIMROD 

And  now  we  hear  in  woodlands  dim 

Their  unarticulated  hymn; 

Now  walk  through  rippling  waves  of  wheat, 

Now  sink  in  mats  of  clover  sweet, 

Or  see  before  us  from  the  lawn 

The  lark  go  up  to  greet  the  dawn! 

All  birds  that  love  the  English  sky 

Throng  'round  my  path  when  she  is  by; 

The  blackbird  from  a  neighboring  thorn 

With  music  brims  the  cup  of  morn, 

And  in  a  thick,  melodious  rain 

The  mavis  pours  her  mellow  strain! 

But  only  when  my  Katie's  voice 

Makes  all  the  listening  woods  rejoice, 

I  hear — with  cheeks  that  flush  and  pale — 

The  passion  of  the  nightingale! 

With   permission   from    Ticknor   &f   Co.,  Boston,   and 
B.  F.  Johnson  Pub.  Co.,  Richmond,  Virginia. 

CAROLINA 


The  despot  treads  thy  sacred  sands, 
Thy  pines  give  shelter  to  his  bands, 
Thy  sons  stand  by  with  idle  hands, 

Carolina ! 

He  breathes  at  ease  thy  airs  of  balm, 
He  scorns  the  lances  of  thy  palm; 
Oh,  who  shall  break  thy  craven  calm, 

Carolina ! 


HENRY    TIMROD  183 

Thy  ancient  fame  is  growing  dim, 
A  spot  is  on  thy  garment's  rim; 
Give  to  the  winds  thy  battle-hymn, 
Carolina ! 


II 


Call  on  thy  children  of  the  hill, 
Wake  swamp  and  river,  coast  and  rill, 
Rouse  all  thy  strength  and  all  thy  skill, 

Carolina ! 

Cite  wealth  and  science,  trade  and  art, 
Touch  with  thy  fire  the  cautious  mart, 
And  pour  thee  through  the  people's  heart — 

Carolina ! 

Till  even  the  coward  spurns  his  fears, 
And  all  thy  fields  and  fens  and  meres 
Shall  bristle  like  thy  palms  with  spears, 

Carolina ! 


Ill 

Hold  up  the  glories  of  thy  dead; 
Say  how  thy  elder  children  bled, 
And  point  to  Eutaw's  battle-bed, 

Carolina ! 

Tell  how  the  patriot  soul  was  tried, 
And  what  his  dauntless  breast  defied ; 
How  Rutledge  ruled  and  Laurens  died, 

Carolina ! 


1 84  HENRY    TIMROD 

Cry  till  thy  summons,  heard  at  last, 
Shall  fall  like  Marion's  bugle-blast 
Re-echoed  from  the  haunted  past, 
Carolina ! 


IV 


I  hear  a  murmur  as  of  waves 

That  grope  their  way  through  sunless  caves, 

Like  bodies  struggling  in  their  graves, 

Carolina ! 

And  now  it  deepens;  slow  and  grand 
It  swells,  as,  rolling  to  the  land, 
An  ocean  broke  upon  thy  strand — 

Carolina ! 

Shout !   Let  it  reach  the  startled  Huns ! 
And  roar  with  all  thy  festal  guns! 
It  is  the  answer  of  thy  sons, 

Carolina ! 


V 


They  will  not  wait  to  hear  thee  call ; 
From  Sachem's  Head  to  Sumter's  wall 
Resounds  the  voice  of  hut  and  hall — 

Carolina! 

No!  thou  hast  not  a  stain,  they  say, 
Or  none  save  what  the  battle-day 
Shall  wash  in  seas  of  blood  away, 

Carolina! 


HENRY    TIMROD  185 

Thy  skirts  indeed  the  foe  may  part, 
Thy  robe  be  pierced  with  sword  and  dart, 
They  shall  not  touch  thy  noble  heart — 
Carolina ! 


VII 

Girt  with  such  wills  to  do  and  bear, 
Assured  in  right,  and  mailed  in  prayer, 
Thou  wilt  not  bow  thee  to  despair, 

Carolina! 

Throw  thy  bold  banner  to  the  breeze! 
Front  with  thy  ranks  the  threatening  seas, 
Like  thine  own  proud  armorial  trees, 

Carolina! 

Fling  down  thy  gauntlet  to  the  Huns, 
And  roar  the  challenge  from  thy  guns; 
Then  leave  the  future  to  thy  sons, 

Carolina ! 

Memorial  Edition,  B^  F.  Johnson  Pub.  Co.,  Richmond, 
Virginia. 

Henry  Timrod's  other  poems  are:  "  A  Cry  to 
Arms,"  "  Katie,"  "  Why  Silent,"  "  The  Lily  Con 
fidante,"  "  Rosebuds,"  "  Our  Willie,"  "  The 
Cotton  Boll,"  "  Spring,"  "  A  Vision  of  Poesy," 
"  Sonnet  and  Others." 


MRS.  MARY  VIRGINIA  TERHUNE 

("MARION    HARLAND") 

1831— 

THIS  well-known  writer  was  born  in  Amelia 
County,  Virginia,  and  is  the  daughter  of  Samuel 
P.  Hawes.  Although  born  in  the  country,  the 
greater  part  of  her  life  was  passed  in  Richmond, 
her  father  being  a  respected  merchant  of  that  city. 
He  was  a  lineal  descendant  of  the  Puritans,  and 
her  mother  was  from  the  earliest  settlers  of  Vir 
ginia.  At  a  very  early  age  "  Marion  Harland  " 
showed  a  remarkable  talent  for  writing,  and  when 
only  fourteen  she  wrote  short  stories  of  real  merit. 

In  1856  she  was  married  to  the  Rev.  E.  R. 
Terhune,  and  since  1859  has  spent  most  of  her 
time  in  the  North.  Her  family  cherish  sacredly 
the  names,  deeds,  and  homesteads  of  their  ances 
tors  North  and  South,  and  the  hearty  participation 
in  the  feelings  of  both  Northern  and  Southern 
branches  is  undoubtedly  the  cause  of  the  freedom 
from  sectional  prejudice  in  all  of  Marion  Har- 
land's  writings. 

The  dream  of  this  woman  has  always  been  au 
thorship.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  she  contrib- 

186 


MARY    VIRGINIA    TERHUNE  187 

uted,  under  an  assumed  name,  a  series  of  papers  to 
a  weekly  city  journal.  The  notice  which  these 
sketches  attracted,  and  the  desire  that  was  ex 
pressed  to  know  the  author,  was  all  very  flattering 
encouragement  to  the  youthful  writer.  Tales, 
essays,  poems,  now  followed  rapidly,  and  she 
studied  with  untiring  constancy. 

A  fugitive  sketch,  written  at  sixteen,  and  called 
"  Marrying  through  Prudential  Motives,"  ap 
peared  in  "  Godey's  Ladies'  Book  "  and  had  quite 
a  remarkable  career.  It  was  copied  into  an  Eng 
lish  paper,  then  transferred  to  a  Parisian  journal, 
retranslated  for  another  English  periodical  and 
was  extensively  read  as  an  English  story,  till  Mr. 
Godey  claimed  it  as  one  of  his  publications. 

In  1854,  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  "  Marion 
Harland,"  Mrs.  Terhune  published  her  first  book, 
"  Alone."  Long  after  the  first  appearance  of  this 
story,  a  new  edition  went  to  press  regularly  every 
few  weeks,  while  it  was  reprinted  with  nearly  as 
much  eclat  in  England,  was  translated  into  French, 
and  found  its  way  into  most  European  cities. 

Two  years  later  "  The  Hidden  Path  "  was  pub 
lished,  and  besides  great  popularity  at  home,  was 
the  only  book  by  a  female  writer  given  place  in 
"  Standard  American  Authors,"  a  collection  pub 
lished  in  Leipzig.  » 

A  third  novel,  "  Moss  Side,"  was  brought  out 
with  like  success  in  1857. 


1 88          MARY    VIRGINIA    TERHUNE 

As  a  magazine  writer  in  these  early  years,  the 
contributions  of  Marion  Harland  were  always 
eagerly  sought  for,  and  her  contributions  to 
Godey's  Magazine  would  fill  a  volume. 

In  1859  the  Rev.  Mr.  Terhune  was  called  to 
the  pastorate  of  the  First  Reformed  Dutch  Church 
in  Newark,  New  Jersey,  and  the  family  removed 
to  that  city,  where  the  Southern  woman  found  a 
warm  welcome  and  many  congenial  friends.  Un 
like  so  many  authors,  the  home  life  and  relations 
of  Mrs.  Terhune  have  been  very  happy.  United 
to  a  man  of  rare  scholarship,  she  always  had  his 
keen  sympathy  and  his  valuable  criticism  and  re 
vision  of  her  work. 

Marion  Harland's  stories  deal  mostly  with 
Southern  life,  and  have  been  very  popular  with 
readers  of  fiction.  They  are  perfectly  pure  and 
wholesome,  and  she  still  is  a  writer  of  many  arti 
cles,  which  are  eagerly  read.  As  a  wife,  mother, 
and  housekeeper,  Marion  Harland  has  nobly 
"  practiced  what  she  preached."  She  spends  her 
winters  in  New  York,  her  summers  in  the  suburbs. 
Her  mornings  are  devoted  to  her  writing,  her 
evenings  to  her  family. 

CHINK-FILLERS 

At  a  recent  conference  of  practical  housewives  and 
mothers  held  in  a  Western  city,  one  of  the  leaders  told, 
as  illustrative  of  the  topic  under  discussion,  an  incident 


MARY    VIRGINIA    TERHUNE  189 

of  her  childhood.  When  a  little  girl  of  seven  years,  she 
stood  by  her  father,  looking  at  a  new  log-cabin. 

"  Papa,"  she  observed,  "  it  is  all  finished,  isn't  it?  " 

"  No,  my  daughter;  look  again." 

The  child  studied  the  structure  before  her.  The  neatly 
hewed  logs  were  in  their  proper  places.  The  roof,  and 
the  rough  chimney,  were  complete;  but,  on  close  scru 
tiny,  one  could  see  the  daylight  filtering  through  the 
interstices  of  the  logs.  It  had  yet  to  be  chinked. 

When  this  anecdote  was  ended,  a  bright  little  woman 
arose  and  returned  her  thanks  for  the  story,  for,  she  said, 
she  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  she  was  one  of  the 
persons  who  had  been  put  in  the  world  to  fill  up  the 
chinks. 

The  chink-fillers  are  among  the  most  useful  members 
of  society.  The  fact  is  patent  of  the  founder  of  one  of 
our  great  educational  systems,  that  he  grasped  large 
plans  and  theories,  but  had  no  talent  for  minutiae.  What 
would  his  majestic  outlines  be  without  the  army  of 
workers  who,  with  a  just  comprehension  of  the  impor 
tance  of  detail,  fill  in  the  chink  in  the  vast  enterprise? 

Putty  may  be  a  mean,  cheap  article,  far  inferior  to  the 
clear,  transparent  crystal  pane,  but  what  would  become 
of  the  costly  plate-glass  were  there  no  putty  to  fill  in  the 
grooves  in  which  it  rests,  and  to  secure  it  against  shocks? 

It  requires  vast  patience  and  much  love  for  one's  fellow- 
man  to  be  a  chink-filler.  She  it  is  who,  as  wife,  mother, 
sister,  or  perhaps,  maiden-aunt,  picks  up  the  hat  or  gloves 
Mamie  has  carelessly  left  on  the  drawing-room  table, 
wipes  the  tiny  finger  smears  from  the  window-panes  at 
which  baby  stood  to  wave  his  hand  to  papa  this  morning:, 
dusts  the  rungs  of  the  chair  neglected  by  the  parlor-maid, 


190  MARY    VIRGINIA    TERHUNE 

and  mends  the  ripped  coat  which  Johnny  forgot  to  men 
tion  until  it  was  nearly  time  to  start  for  school.  It  is 
she  who  thinks  to  pull  the  basting-threads  out  of  the  newly 
finished  gown,  tacks  niching  in  neck  and  sleeves  against 
the  time  when  daughter  or  sister  may  want  it  in  a  hurry, 
remembers  to  prepare  some  dainty  for  that  member  of 
the  household  who  is  "  not  quite  up  to  the  mark  "  in 
appetite — in  fact,  undertakes  those  tasks,  so  many  of  which 
show  for  little  when  done,  but  which  are  painfully  con 
spicuous  when  neglected. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  mind  of  the  hireling  can 
not  grasp  the  importance  of  the  lesser  tasks  that  go  to 
make  up  the  sum  of  existence.  If  you  allow  Bridget  to 
prepare  your  chambers  for  an  unexpected  friend,  you  will 
observe  that  she  glories  in  Rembrandt-like  effects — which, 
when  viewed  at  a  distance,  assume  a  respectable  appear 
ance.  You,  with  brains  back  of  your  hands,  will  notice 
that  there  is  a  tiny  hole  in  the  counterpane,  dust  under 
the  table,  and — above  all — that  the  soap-dish  is  not  clean. 
Your  servant  may  do  the  rough  work ;  the  dainty,  lady-like 
touch  must  be  given  by  you. 

You  have  an  experienced  waitress  and  a  jewel  if  the 
dining-room  and  table  are  perfect  without  your  super 
vision.  It  may  be  only  that  a  teacup  or  plate  is  sticky  or 
rough  to  the  touch,  a  fork  or  a  knife  needed,  the  steel  or 
one  of  the  carvers  forgotten.  But  when  the  family  is 
assembled  at  the  board,  these  trifles  cause  awkward  pauses 
and  interruptions. 

Often  the  work  which  "  doesn't  show  "  takes  most  time, 
and  tries  the  temper.  It  would  be  an  excellent  plan  for 
each  member  of  the  household  to  resolve  to  put  in  its 
proper  place  everything  which  he  or  she  observes  out  of 


MARY    VIRGINIA    TERHUNE  19 r 

order.  By  the  time  this  rule  had  been  established  for 
twenty-four  hours,  the  house  would  be  immaculate,  and 
the  mother  find  ample  time  for  her  mission — if  she  has  any 
besides  general  chink-filler  for  the  family.  If  not,  she 
will  have  an  opportunity  to  rest. 

A  well-known  author,  who  is  at  the  same  time  an 
exemplary  housewife,  tells  of  how  she  retired  one  rainy 
spring  morning  to  her  study  in  just  the  mood  for  writing. 
Husband  and  sons  had  gone  to  their  various  occupations. 
She  had  a  splendid  day  for  work  ahead  of  her.  She  sat 
down  to  her  desk  and  took  up  her  pen.  The  plot  of  a 
story  was  forming  itself  in  her  brain.  She  dipped  her 
pen  in  the  ink  and  wrote: 

"  He  was " 

A  knock  at  the  door.    Enter  Anne. 

"  Please,  mem,  a  mouse  has  eat  a  hole  in  one  of  your 
handsome  napkins — them  as  I  was  to  wash  ag'in  the  com 
pany  you're  expectin'  to-morrow  night.  By  rights  it 
should  be  mended  before  it's  washed." 

"  Bring  it  to  the  sewing-room." 

When  the  neat  piece  of  darning  was  ended,  the  house 
keeper  repaired  to  the  closet  to  put  on  a  loose  writing 
sack.  On  the  nail  next  to  the  jacket  hung  her  winter 
coat.  On  the  edge  of  the  sleeve  was  a  tiny  hole.  The 
housewifely  spirit  was  filled  with  dread.  There  were 
actually  moths  in  that  closet.  She  must  attend  to  it  im 
mediately.  The  woolens  ought  to  be  put  up  if  moths 
had  already  appeared.  John's  clothes  and  the  boys'  win 
ter  coats  were  in  great  danger  of  being  ruined.  By  lunch 
time  the  necessary  brushing  and  doing  up  were  ended. 
But  in  stowing  away  the  winter  garments  in  the  attic  our 
heroine  was  appalled  at  the  confusion  among  the  trunks. 


192          MARY   VIRGINIA    TERHUNE 

The  garret  needed  attention,  and  received  it  as  soon  as  the 
noonday  meal  was  dispatched.  At  four  o'clock,  with  the 
waitress'  assistance,  the  task  was  completed.  About  the 
same  time  a  note  arrived  from  John  saying  he  would  be 
obliged  to  bring  two  of  his  old  friends — "  swell  bach 
elors  who  were  spending  the  day  in  town — to  dine  with 
him  that  night.  She  must  not  put  herself  to  any  trouble 
about  dinner,  and  he  would  take  them  to  the  theater  in 
the  evening."  To  the  dinner  already  ordered  were  added 
oyster-pates,  salad  with  mayonnaise  dressing,  salted  alm 
onds,  and  instead  of  the  plain  pudding  that  John  liked, 
was  a  pie  of  which  he  was  still  more  fond,  capped  by 
black  co flee,  all  of  which  articles,  except  the  last-named, 
were  prepared  by  the  hostess,  who,  in  faultless  toilette, 
with  remarkable  brilliant  color,  smilingly  welcomed  her 
husband  and  his  guests  to  the  half-past-six  dinner.  When 
they  had  gone  to  the  theater,  and  the  mother  had  talked 
to  her  two  sons  of  the  day's  school  experiences,  before 
they  settled  down  to  their  evening  of  study,  she  returned 
to  the  dining-room,  and,  as  Mary  had  a  headache  and  had 
had  a  busy  day,  she  assisted  in  washing  and  wiping  the 
unusual  number  of  soiled  dishes,  and  in  setting  the  break 
fast  table.  At  nine  o'clock  she  dragged  her  weary  self 
upstairs. 

As  she  passed  the  door  of  her  sanctum  on  the  way  to 
her  bedchamber,  she  paused,  then  entered  and  lighted  the 
gas-jet  over  her  desk.  In  it  lay  a  page  of  foolscap,  blank 
but  for  the  words: 

«  Re  was " 

The  day  had  gone,  and  the  plot  with  it. 

With  a  half-sob  she  sat  down  and  wrote  with  tired 
and  trembling  fingers: 


MARY    VIRGINIA    TERHUNE  193 

"  He  was — this  morning.     He  isn't  now!  " 
But  will  not  my  readers  agree  with  me  that  she  was 
a  genuine  wife,  mother,  housekeeper — in  short,  a  "  chink- 
filler"? 

Permission  of  Marion  Harland. 

Works:  "Alone,"  "Moss-side,"  "Beech- 
dale,"  "  Judith,"  "  The  Hidden  Path,"  "  Handi 
capped,"  "  Nemesis,"  "  At  Last,"  "  Helen  Gard 
ner's  Wedding  Days,"  "  Jessamine,"  "  With  Best 
Intentions,"  "  True  as  Steel,"  "  Sunnybank," 
"  From  My  Youth  Up,"  "My  Little  Love,"  "  A 
Gallant  Fight,"  "The  Royal  Road,"  "His 
Daughters,"  "  Marion,"  "  Common  Sense  in  the 
Nursery,"  "  The  Cottage  Kitchen,"  "  The  Dinner 
Year  Book,"  "  Breakfast,  Luncheon,  and  Tea," 
"  The  Story  of  Mary  Washington,"  "  Loitering 
in  Pleasant  Paths." 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE 

1809 — 1849 

FEW  Americans  have  attracted  more  attention 
than  the  Southern  poet,  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  and 
many  biographies  of  him,  innumerable  reviews, 
and  criticisms,  some  intelligent,  but  many  igno- 
rantly  and  unjustly  written,  have  been  published. 
The  fascination  of  mystery  enshrouds  much  con 
cerning  him,  and  adds  melancholy  interest  to  his 
history.  The  very  place  and  date  of  his  birth  were 
for  a  long  time  a  matter  of  dispute.  It  is  asserted 
now  and  generally  admitted  that  Edgar  Poe  was 
born  in  Boston  during  a  theatrical  engagement 
of  his  parents,  for  they  were  actors. 

Richard  H.  Stoddard  says  Poe  was  born  on 
February  19,  while  Eugene  Didier  writes  that 
it  was  January  19.  The  parents  were  Southern 
people  and  their  home  was  in  Baltimore  or  Rich 
mond,  when  they  were  not  traveling. 

For  one  hundred  years  the  Poe  family  occupied 
a  prominent  position  in  the  city  of  Baltimore. 
David  Poe,  called  General  Poe,  the  grandfather 
of  the  poet,  was  born  in  Londonderry,  in  Ireland, 
in  1743.  John  Poe  and  his  wife,  Jane  McBride, 

194 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE  195 

the  great-grandparents,  were  also  Irish.  The 
family  emigrated  to  America  and  settled  first  in 
Pennsylvania,  where  David  Poe  grew  to  manhood 
and  married  the  beautiful  Miss  Cairnes  of  that 
State.  In  1776  David  Poe  took  up  his  permanent 
residence  in  Baltimore,  where  he  held  many  posi 
tions  of  trust  and  rendered  valuable  service  to  the 
State.  Some  of  his  patriotic  letters  may  be  found 
among  the  Maryland  papers  of  the  "  '76  Society." 
In  1824,  when  Lafayette  was  in  Baltimore,  on 
learning  of  the  death  of  General  Poe,  he  called  to 
see  Mrs.  Poe  and  expressed  to  her  his  great  regard 
for  her  husband.  General  Poe  had  six  children, 
of  whom  the  eldest  was  David  Poe,  Jr.,  the  father 
of  Edgar.  He  was  a  handsome,  dashing  young 
man,  and  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Thespian 
Club  of  Baltimore.  He  became  infatuated  with 
the  stage  and  at  Charleston  announced  his  intention 
of  making  his  first  appearance  there  as  an  actor. 
His  uncle,  William  Poe,  persuaded  him  to  give  up 
the  stage,  and  take  a  place  in  the  law  office  of  Hon. 
John  Forsyth,  of  Augusta,  Georgia.  William 
Poe  had  settled  in  Augusta  and  married  the  sister 
of  Hon.  John  Forsyth.  Hon.  Washington  Poe 
was  a  child  of  this  marriage  and  became  a  member 
of  Congress  from  Georgia.  David  Poe  fell  in 
love  with  an  actress  whose  maiden  name  was 
Arnold,  married  her  and  then  adopted  and  fol 
lowed  his  wife's  profession.  After  a  wandering 


196  EDGAR    ALLAN   POE 

life  of  poverty  and  failure,  they  both  perished  in 
the  Richmond  Theatre,  which  was  burned  Decem 
ber  26,  1811,  in  Baltimore.  Three  children  were 
left  penniless.  After  their  death  Edgar  was 
adopted  by  a  Mr.  Allan  of  Richmond,  Virginia, 
who,  after  rearing  him  in  luxury,  died  and  left 
him  without  a  dollar.  Rosalie  Poe  was  adopted 
by  Mr.  McKenzie  of  Richmond,  and  William 
Henry,  by  Mr.  Henry  Didier,  of  Baltimore. 

When  Edgar  Poe  was  a  mere  child  in  the 
adopted  home,  "  Mr.  Allan  would  call  upon  him 
frequently,  at  dinings,  to  give  a  toast,  and  the  boy, 
rising,  roguishly  and  with  ineffable  grace,  would 
drink  the  wine  and  wittily  respond,  to  the  delight 
of  all  present."  The  impressions  this  training 
made  on  a  nervous  and  highly  wrought  tempera 
ment,  with  strong  tendencies  toward  stimulants, 
were  no  doubt  the  beginnings  of  the  habits  which 
blighted  Poe's  life,  and  led  to  his  early  death, 
robbing  the  world  of  his  genius,  which  should 
have  gladdened  it  for  many  years.  Poe  was  so 
sensitive  to  the  influence  of  an  intoxicant  that 
a  single  glass  of  wine  made  him  frantic.  When 
he  was  six  years  old,  he  went  with  his  foster  par 
ents  to  Europe  and  attended  a  private  school 
near  London.  Upon  the  family  returning  to 
Richmond,  Edgar  entered  the  University  of  Vir 
ginia,  where  he  was  a  successful  student  of 
languages,  and  graduated  with  the  highest  honor 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE  197 

he  could  receive  from  the  University,  which  then 
had  no  provisions  for  conferring  degrees  of  any 
kind. 

Mr.  Allan  now  gave  him  a  position  in  his  office, 
but  the  young  man  grew  weary  of  office  work 
drudgery,  went  to  Boston,  and  enlisted  in  the 
United  States  Army,  under  the  name  of  Edgar  A. 
Perry.  Here  he  was  again  dissatisfied,  and  Mr. 
Allan  secured  his  discharge,  obtaining  for  him  an 
appointment  at  West  Point.  "  The  routine  of 
military  school  life  became  more  and  more  dis 
tasteful  to  him,  until  at  length  he  deliberately 
brought  about  his  expulsion  by  neglect  of  such 
duties  as  roll-call  and  guard  duty." 

Upon  the  death  of  Mrs.  Allan,  Poe  lost  his 
best  friend,  with  her  tender  solicitude  and  affec 
tionate  interest.  Within  a  year  after  the  death  of 
his  wife  Mr.  Allan  married  Louise  Gabrielle  Pat 
terson,  and  when  a  son  was  born  Poe  ceased  to 
be  the  prospective  heir  to  five  thousand  acres  of 
land  in  Goochland,  Virginia,  a  hundred  slaves,  and 
real  estate  in  Richmond — in  all  a  property  amount 
ing  to  five  hundred  thousand  dollars.  Mr.  Allan 
continued  for  a  time  to  give  Edgar  a  home,  but 
he  was  merely  tolerated,  not  loved  and  cared  for 
as  he  had  been  during  the  life  of  the  first  wife. 
Poe,  with  his  proud,  sensitive  nature,  felt  the 
change  keenly,  and  a  quarrel  and  rupture  were  in 
evitable.  Eugene  Didier  says  in  his  life  of  Poe: 


i98  EDGAR    ALLAN    POE 

"  For  nearly  twenty  years  Edgar  had  been  the 
idolized  child  of  the  house.  He  returns  from 
West  Point  and  finds  all  things  changed  in  the  old 
Fifth  Street  house.  Another  Mrs.  Allan  was 
there.  We  all  know  the  influence  of  a  second  wife 
upon  a  fond,  doting  old  husband.  Edgar  felt  its 
effects  more  than  any  one  else.  Mrs.  Allan  very 
naturally  wanted  all  the  Allan  property  for  the 
Allan  children." 

Mrs.  Susan  Archer  Tally  Weiss  says,  in  a  letter 
to  Mr.  Didier:  "The  cause  of  the  quarrel  be 
tween  the  Allans  and  Poe  was  very  simple  and 
very  natural,  human  nature  considered,"  and  she 
completely  exonerated  Edgar  Poe  from  all  blame. 

Soon  after  this  Mr.  Allan  died,  leaving  Poe 
unmentioned  in  his  will.  In  time  Poe  wandered 
again  to  Baltimore,  and  made  his  home  with  his 
father's  sister,  Mrs.  Clemm,  whose  daughter  Vir 
ginia  he  married  in  May,  1836.  Though  ex 
tremely  poor,  the  three  formed  a  very  happy 
household,  until  death  took  the  child-wife  and  left 
Poe  alone  again  with  only  desperate  poverty. 
"  Seldom  has  a  life  been  so  full  of  genius  and  of 
misery." 

During  all  these  years  Edgar  Allan  Poe  was  a 
constant  contributor  to  various  periodicals,  win 
ning  a  prize  from  a  Philadelphia  paper  with  his 
story,  "  The  Gold  Bug,"  and  the  hundred-dollar 
prize  offered  by  the  "  Baltimore  Saturday  Visitor  " 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE  199 

with  his  story,  "  A  MS.  Found  in  a  Bottle."  In 
1835  ne  went  to  Richmond  and  became  assistant 
editor  of  "  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger," 
which  magazine  he  conducted  with  marked  ability. 
His  stories  "  The  Maelstrom  "  and  "  The  Mur 
ders  in  Rue  Morgue "  are  among  the  most 
powerful  short  stories  in  any  language.  He  was 
the  first  and  greatest  writer  of  detective  stories. 
His  "  Monsieur  C.  Auguste  Dupin  "  is  a  master 
of  the  analysis  of  crime. 

Brander  Matthews  in  his  "  Introduction  to 
American  Literature  "  says :  "  Poe,  in  the  eyes  of 
foreigners,  is  the  most  gifted  of  all  the  authors 
of  America;  he  is  the  one  to  whom  the  critics  of 
Europe  would  most  readily  accord  the  full  title 
of  genius.  At  the  end  of  this  nineteenth  century, 
Poe  is  the  sole  man  of  letters,  born  in  the  United 
States,  whose  writings  are  read  eagerly  in  Great 
Britain,  in  France,  in  Germany,  in  Italy,  and  in 
Spain,  where  Franklin  is  now  but  a  name,  and 
where  the  fame  of  James  Fenimore  Cooper,  once 
so  widely  spread,  is  now  slowly  drifting  away." 

Poe's  works  cover  three  fields,  poetry,  fiction 
and  criticism,  and  in  the  latter  he  first  attracted 
attention.  As  a  writer  of  short  stories  he  estab 
lished  a  reputation  for  great  originality.  Prob 
ably  his  strongest  work  is  in  prose.  His  analysis 
and  his  description  were  so  true  and  real  that  some 
believed  his  stories  founded  on  actual  experience; 


200  EDGAR    ALLAN    POE 

as  for  instance  the  "  Balloon  Journey,"  published 
in  the  New  York  "  Sun,"  and  his  analysis  of 
monomania  and  catalepsy  in  the  story  of  Bernice. 

"  A  MS.  Found  in  a  Bottle  "  is  the  story  of  a 
sailor  who  went  down  in  a  whirlpool  near  the 
South  Pole. 

"  The  Narrative  of  Arthur  Gordon  Pym  "is  a 
horrible  story  of  adventures  that  befell  a  ship 
wrecked  crew  among  cannibals.  Discovery  and 
invention  helped  Poe  in  the  weird  tale  of  "  Sche 
herazade,"  and  the  "  Gold  Bug  "  is  an  account  of 
the  discovery  of  Captain  Kidd's  treasure  under  a 
tulip  tree.  "  The  Murders  of  the  Rue  Morgue  " 
shows  the  powerful  analytical  reasoning  of  a  young 
Frenchman  who  finally  discovers  that  the  perpe 
trator  of  a  horrible  murder  which  had  shocked  all 
Paris  was  an  escaped  orang-outang.  "  The  Mys 
tery  of  Maria  Bouget  "  is  the  exposition  of  an 
other  murder,  and  "  The  Black  Cat,"  one  among 
his  best  known  stories,  shows  the  growth  of  crim 
inal  impulse  and  the  helplessness  of  a  broken 
will. 

Edgar  Poe  is  described  as  having  been  of  me 
dium  height,  erect  and  handsome  in  early  life. 
His  eyes  possessed  wondrous  beauty  and  charm. 
Intellectually  and  as  a  companion  he  was  most  fas 
cinating,  and  when  not  under  the  influence  of 
liquor,  a  most  lovable  person.  He  closed  his 
troubled  life  at  the  Washington  University  Hospi- 


EDGAR    ALLAN   POE  201 

tal  of  Baltimore,  from  causes  which  will  probably 
never  be  known. 

It  has  been  declared  that  Poe  was  intoxicated 
and  left  the  train,  not  knowing  what  he  was  doing, 
but  when  his  monument  was  erected  in  Baltimore 
in  1875,  by  the  teachers  of  that  city,  assisted  by 
George  W.  Childs  of  Philadelphia,  this  accusation 
was  declared  untrue. 

Appleton  Morgan  says:  "The  conductor  of 
the  train  carrying  the  poet  for  the  last  time,  made 
a  sworn  statement  that  there  was  no  sign  of  intoxi 
cation  about  him,"  and  Dr.  John  J.  Morgan  said: 
"  There  was  no  smell  of  liquor  about  the  body 
when  brought  to  the  hospital."  The  story  that 
Poe  was  a  habitual  drunkard  is  denied  by  many 
modern  writers. 

In  the  winter  of  1837,  when  Poe  and  his  little 
family  were  in  New  York,  Mrs.  Clemm  endeav 
ored  to  add  to  their  slender  income  by  taking 
boarders.  William  Gowans,  a  then  well-known 
bookseller,  boarded  with  them.  He  says  of  the 
eight  months  he  was  with  Poe :  "  I  saw  much  of 
him  during  that  time.  He  was  one  of  the  most 
courteous,  gentlemanly,  and  intelligent  compan 
ions  I  ever  met.  I  never  saw  him  in  the  least  af 
fected  by  liquor,  or  descend  to  any  known  vice." 

Eugene  Didier  says:  "There  are  some  people 
who  will  always  believe  that  the  life  of  Edgar 
Allan  Poe  was  one  long  fit  of  intoxication.  It 


202  EDGAR    ALLAN   POE 

never  seems  to  occur  to  these  people  that  a  drunk 
ard's  intellect  could  not  have  produced  the  literary 
work  which  stands  as  an  immortal  monument  to 
Poe's  genius." 

Besides  the  ancient  and  modern  languages  Poe's 
works  show  a  familiarity  with  natural  history, 
mineralogy,  philosophy,  chemistry,  astronomy,  etc. 
Habitual  drunkards  do  not,  generally  speaking, 
spend  their  time  in  accumulating  vast  stores  of 
learning.  It  does  seem  very  suspicious  that  only 
one  of  Poe's  acquaintances  knew  of  his  frequent 
"  fits  of  intoxication."  N.  P.  Willis,  who  was  in 
daily  intercourse  with  him  for  months,  saw  noth 
ing  of  his  dissipated  habits.  L.  A.  Wilmer,  dur 
ing  an  intimate  friendship  of  twelve  years,  saw 
nothing  of  it.  George  R.  Graham,  who  was  asso 
ciated  with  him  for  two  years,  saw  nothing  of  it. 
S.  D.  Lewis,  who  lived  in  closest  intimacy,  never 
saw  Poe  drink  a  glass  of  wine,  beer  or  liquor  of 
any  kind.  The  fact  is,  that  it  was  only  at  rare 
intervals,  and  more  especially  after  the  loss  of  his 
adored  wife,  that  he  indulged  in  stimulants. 
Poe  was  a  most  industrious,  laborious,  painstaking 
writer.  Neilson  Poe  said  Edgar  was  one  of  the 
best-hearted  men  that  ever  lived.  "  Every  person 
who  came  in  contact  with  Edgar  Poe  speaks  of 
his  elegant  appearance,  the  stately  grace  of  his 
manners,  and  his  fascinating  conversation." 

Hannay,  the  English  critic,  says  of  Poe's  writ- 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE  203 

ings:  "  His  poetry  is  all  as  pure  as  wild  flowers. 
With  all  his  passion  for  the  beautiful,  no  poet  was 
ever  less  voluptuous.  He  never  profaned  his 
genius." 

It  is  a  matter  of  surprise  that  any  American 
writer,  who  really  has  at  heart  the  honor  of  Amer 
ican  literature,  should  endeavor  to  cast  reproach 
and  dishonor  upon  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  who  has 
done  more  for  our  country's  literary  reputation 
than  any  other  author.  It  is  hard  to  stop  a  false 
hood  when  once  started. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  was  perhaps  the  most  schol 
arly  writer  our  country  ever  produced.  His  ac 
quaintance  with  classical  literature  was  thorough, 
and  even  the  most  insignificant  of  his  writings 
show  scholarship. 

Dr.  Griswold's  "  Life  of  Poe  "  was  unfortu 
nately  our  first  medium  for  forming  an  estimate  of 
our  noble  poet.  This  biography  was  only  the 
cruel  revenge  a  man  took  upon  a  dead  author  who 
had  dared  in  life  to  criticise  the  book  "  Poets  and 
Poetry  of  America."  Every  volume  of  Dr.  Gris 
wold's  biography  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe  should  be 
destroyed. 

His  published  works  are  "  Poems,"  "  Tales  of 
the  Arabesque  and  Grotesque,"  "  Humorous 
Tales  and  Sketches,"  "  Literati  of  New  York," 
"  Conchologist's  First  Book,"  "  Poems  Written  in 
Youth,"  and  "  Critical  Essays." 


2O4 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE 


Walter  C.  Brown  says :  "  To  his  American  en 
vironment  Poe  owed  nothing  but  poverty  and  fet 
ters,  but  in  spite  of  all  he  managed  to  produce  a 
few  poems  and  tales  which  are  perfect  of  their 
kind,  and  greatly  raised  the  standard  of  art  in 
American  literature." 

Another  critic  says :  "  Poe's  striking  genius  will 
rank  him  always  as  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
writers  of  English.  To-day  his  works  are  more 
in  demand  than  ever  before.  They  abound  in  that 
magnetic  quality  which  not  only  attracts,  but  also 
arouses  permanent  interest.  You  will  read  Poe 
over  and  over  again.  No  one  can  have  a  knowl 
edge  of  American  verse,  fiction,  and  criticism  with 
out  a  thorough  acquaintance  with  his  masterpieces 
of  imagination.  His  writings  constitute  a  treasure- 
house  of  pathos,  mystery,  melody,  and  dramatic 
narrative,  weird  fancy,  and  profound  wisdom." 

Mrs.  M.  E.  Bryant  writes:  "Almost  as  many 
utterly  false  things  have  been  published  and  be 
lieved  about  Poe  as  about  Byron.  In  the  new  En 
cyclopaedia  Britannica  it  says  that  Poe  is  the  most 
interesting  figure  in  American  literature,  and  fur 
nishes  the  most  extraordinary  instance  on  record 
of  systematic  misrepresentation  on  the  part  of 
biographers." 

His  "  critical  notices,"  spiced  with  wit  and 
irony,  his  acute  sensitiveness  to  defects,  particu 
larly  in  poetry,  made  him  a  severe  and  con- 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE  205 

scientious  critic.  He  made  enemies  by  this,  such 
as  Dr.  Griswold,  whose  works  he  frankly  criti 
cised. 

Donald  G.  Mitchell  says :  "  Again  and  again  in 
highest  praise,  of  this  erratic  genius,  it  must  be 
said  that  in  his  pages  there  is  no  coarse,  no  beastly 
double  meaning,  not  a  line  to  pamper  sensual 
appetite." 

"  The  Raven  "  was  published  anonymously  in 
"  The  American  Review  "  of  February,  1845.  N. 
P.  Willis,  who  knew  it  to  be  Poe's,  transferred  it 
to  "  The  New  York  Evening  Mirror  "  and  gave 
it  a  good  review.  An  English  writer  says:  "  '  The 
Raven  '  is  the  most  popular  lyrical  poem  in  the 
world.  It  has  been  translated  and  commented 
upon  by  the  leading  literati  of  the  two  continents, 
and  an  entire  literature  has  been  founded  upon  it." 

At  West  Point  Poe's  scholarship  was  high,  but 
he  rebelled  against  the  routine  of  military  dis 
cipline.  Poe's  life  was  one  long  struggle  with 
poverty.  In  1833  he  had  sunk  to  great  destitu 
tion,  when  "  A  MS.  Found  in  a  Bottle  "  won  the 
prize  of  $100.  Under  his  conduct  "The  South 
ern  Literary  Messenger "  sprang  into  sudden 
prominence,  and  gained  wonderful  advancement. 
Professor  Woodbery  says,  speaking  of  Poe :  "  He 
impressed  me  as  a  refined  and  very  gentlemanly 
man,  exceedingly  neat  in  person.  His  manner 
was  quiet  and  reserved.  The  form  of  his  MS. 


206  EDGAR    ALLAN    POE 

was  peculiar.  He  wrote  on  half  sheets  of  note 
paper  which  he  pasted  together.  His  life  in  the 
cottage  on  the  outskirts  of  Philadelphia  and  later 
in  Fordham  was  idyllic  in  the  days  when  his  child- 
wife  was  well  enough  to  sing  on  the  harp,  while 
Poe  hung  over  her  frail  form  tenderly,  and  good 
Mrs.  Clemm,  who  idolized  them  both,  looked  on 
with  motherly  pleasure." 

After  the  death  of  his  wife,  Poe  had  brain 
fever,  and  he  never  quite  returned  to  his  former 
self,  and  the  intense  suffering  of  his  morbidly  sen 
sitive  nature,  with  all  the  sad  results,  must  touch 
the  heart  of  any  merciful  person.  Although  the 
critical  reviews  of  Poe  were  not  valued  in  his  time 
as  they  should  be,  they  helped  to  raise  the  standard 
of  American  letters  by  their  keen,  fearless  attacks 
upon  "  complacent  mediocrity." 

His  lectures  on  "  The  Poetic  Principle,"  in  which 
poetry  is  defined  as  "  the  rhythmic  creation  of 
Beauty,"  were  a  "  wholesome  antidote  to  the  di- 
dactism  of  New  England  conception  of  Art." 
Walter  Bronson  says:.  "Poe  has  been  accused  of 
plagiarism,  but  in  his  best  work  he  was  emphat 
ically  original."  The  old  "  Poe  and  Chivers  Con 
troversy  "  has  from  time  to  time  reappeared,  and 
claims  are  made  that  Poe  got  his  style,  atmosphere 
and  unique  rhythmic  conceptions  from  poems  of 
Dr.  Thomas  Holly  Chivers. 

Of  this  Professor  Charles    H.   Hubner  says: 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE  207 

"  Every  reader  and  student  will  have  to  form  his 
own  conclusions."  Referring  to  "  The  Bells," 
"The  Raven,"  "Annabel  Lee,"  he  adds:  "  No 
critic  will  doubt  that  to  Poe  belongs  the  wonderful 
magic  and  mastery  of  this  species  of  song.  If  .to 
him  who  says  a  thing  best  the  thing  belongs,  no 
one  will  hesitate  to  decide  that  Poe  is  entitled  to 
the  '  bays  which  crown  '  him." 

To-day  Poe's  works  are  more  in  demand  than 
ever,  and  to-day  he  is  the  most  interesting  figure 
in  American  literature.  Any  one  who  is  not  ca 
pable  of  appreciation  of  the  beauty  of  his  poetry 
and  who  has  not  a  heart  that  can  feel  keen  sym 
pathy  with  his  bitter  poverty,  should  never  attempt 
to  be  the  judge  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 

Miss  Susan  Archer  Tally  (Mrs.  Weiss)  lived 
near  neighbor  to  Mrs.  McKenzie  in  Richmond, 
who  had  adopted  Poe's  sister  Rosalie.  Mrs. 
Weiss  was  quite  intimate  with  Rose  Poe,  and  when 
Poe  came  to  Richmond  in  1849,  in  tne  interest  of 
his  magazine,  "  The  Stylus,"  which  he  was  eager 
to  publish,  he  took  lodging  at  Swan's  Tavern,  a 
rambling  frame  building  on  the  corner  of  Eighth 
and  Broad  Streets.  Poe  was  then  about  forty 
years  old.  Mrs.  Weiss  described  him  as  of  me 
dium  height  and  distinguished  looking.  "  His 
eyes,"  she  says,  "  were  unlike  any  I  have  ever  seen 
and  possessed  wonderful  beauty  and  charm.  Large 
and  shaded  by  long  black  lashes,  they  were  steel 


208 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE 


gray  in  color,  of  crystalline  clearness,  the  pupils 
expanding  and  contracting  with  every  shade  of 
thought  or  emotion.  Young  as  I  was,  I  seemed 
to  recognize  the  finer  nature  of  the  man." 

Charles  Hemstreet  says:  "When  Poe  wrote 
4  The  Raven  '  he  was  living  with  his  wife  and  her 
mother,  Mrs.  Clemm,  in  Bloomingdale  Village, 
the  house  standing  on  the  thoroughfare  now  run 
ning  between  Broadway  and  West  End  Avenue. 
In  the  spring  of  1846,  when  his  wife  grew  more 
feeble,  he  moved  out  into  the  country  to  a  secluded 
spot  then  far  from  the  city  known  as  Fordham. 
In  this  dingy  little  house  Poe  dreamed  out  his 
'  Eureka,'  and  penned  the  exquisite  '  Annabel 
Lee  '  and  also  the  first  draught  of  '  The  Bells.'  " 


THE   BELLS 
I 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells, — 

Silver  bells, — 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 
With  a  crystalline  delight, — 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 


EDGAR    ALLAN   POE  209 

To  the  tintinabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

II 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, — 

Golden  bells! 

What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

All  in  tune, 

What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 

On  the  moon ! 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells! 
How  it  swells! 
How  it  dwells 

On  the  Future!    How  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells— - 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells! 

Ill 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells, — 
Brazen  bells! 


210  EDGAR    ALLAN   POE 

What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune, 

In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor, 
Now — now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  Despair! 

How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging, 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells,- 

Of  the  bells,— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells — 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells. 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE  211 

IV 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells, — 

Iron  bells! 

What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 

And  the  people — ah,  the  people — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  who,  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human — 

They  are  Ghouls: 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 

Rolls 

A  paean  from  the  bells! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 
With  the  paean  of  the  bells ! 
And  he  dances,  and  he  yells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  paean  of  the  bells, — 

Of  the  bells; 


212  EDGAR    ALLAN    POE 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 

Permission  A.  C.  Armstrong  &  Sons,  Pub.,  N.  Y. 

ANNABEL  LEE 
It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee: 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea; 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  which  was  more  than  love- 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee ; 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 
In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 


EDGAR    ALLAN   POE  213 

A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
So  that  her  high-born  kinsman  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me — 
Yes! — that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we — 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we — 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee : 

For   the   moon    never   beams   without   bringing   me 
dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  the  stars  never  rise  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling — my  darling — my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  the  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 
By  permission  of  A.  C.  Armstrong,  New  York  City. 


MARY   NOAILLES   MURFREE 
("CHARLES  EGBERT  CRADDOCK") 


THIS  talented  writer  was  born  at  Grantlands, 
the  home  of  her  parents  near  Murfreesboro,  Ten 
nessee,  this  city  being  named  for  her  family,  who 
were  early  settlers  in  the  State. 

Her  father  was  a  lawyer,  but  his  fortunes  were 
ruined  by  the  disasters  of  the  Civil  War.  In  ad 
dition  to  this  poverty  which  so  early  shadowed 
her  life,  there  came  to  Miss  Murfree  the  trial  of 
disease,  and  a  partial  paralysis  left  the  little  girl 
lame  and  deprived  her  of  active  sports  enjoyed  by 
other  children.  Thus  she  was  set  apart  in  one  of 
those  "  wildernesses  "  into  which  God  often  sends 
those  of  whom  He  makes  His  most  capable  work 
ers.  "  Sickness  sent  Scott  to  the  country  where  he 
gathered  legend  and  story,  it  inclined  Dickens  to 
reading  and  laid  Hawthorne  often  down  upon  the 
carpet  to  study."  Through  an  intense  desire  for 
occupation,  the  desire  to  write  came  to  her,  for 
both  her  father  and  mother  had  written  for  many 
magazines.  Miss  Murfree  strengthened  her  mind 
by  the  most  wholesome  and  the  best  reading,  and 
she  soon  developed  a  capacity  for  the  examination 

214 


M4RY   NOAILLES   MURFREE          215 

of  human  types,  seeming  to  have  peculiar  insight 
into  the  nature  of  boys.  "  To  the  slaves  on  the 
plantation  she  was  indebted,  as  was  every  Southern 
writer,  for  a  unique  cultivation  of  fancy  and  leg 
endary  taste." 

Although  years  passed  before  Miss  Murfree's 
writings  began  to  receive  much  recognition,  they 
were  years  spent  in  study  and  intelligent  gathering 
in  of  good  material,  near  at  hand.  She  had  op 
portunity  for  a  varied  collection  of  experiences. 
The  buildings  on  the  place  where  she  was  born 
were  riddled  with  bullets  at  the  battle  of  Stone 
River. 

The  assumed  name,  "  Charles  Egbert  Crad- 
dock,"  under  which  she  wrote,  was  used  for  the 
double  purpose  of  concealing  failure  if  it  came 
her  way,  and  because  she  believed  the  writings  of 
a  man  were  more  apt  to  be  well  received  than  those 
of  a  woman.  So  perfectly  did  she  hide  behind 
this  nom  de  plume  that  her  publishers  wrote  to 
her  as  to  a  man,  beginning  their  letters,  "  My  dear 
Craddock."  Her  manuscripts  had  nothing  femi 
nine  about  them,  her  writing  was  clear  and  bold, 
and  free  from  any  feminine  "  hall  marks."  When 
she  wrote  "  The  Prophet  of  the  Great  Smoky 
Mountain  "  and  found  herself  famous,  she  sur 
prised  her  publishers  by  appearing  and  introducing 
herself.  Miss  Murfree's  first  story,  which  ap 
peared  in  "  The  Atlantic  Monthly,"  was  called 


216 


MARY   NOAILLES   MURFREE 


"  The  Dancing  Party."  Egbert  Craddock  was 
the  name  of  the  hero  of  her  second  story,  and  so, 
being  in  search  of  a  nom  de  plume  for  herself, 
she  took  the  name  of  her  hero  with  the  prefix  of 
Charles.  Miss  Murfree  soon  became  recognized 
as  a  Southern  writer  of  uncommon  art,  originality 
and  power.  Her  sympathetic  insight  into  ordinary, 
unpoetic  lives,  her  recognition  of  the  beauty  and 
pathos  of  the  Tennessee  mountaineers,  shows  her 
capable  of  the  depth  necessary  for  a  writer  of  fic 
tion.  She  shows  with  wondrously  tender  insight 
"  that  the  same  questions,  the  same  doubts,  the 
same  fears  and  temptations  perplex  the  untutored 
heart  as  they  do  the  people  of  higher  culture,  and 
that  the  most  lowly  can  often  rise  to  the  heights 
of  the  heroic." 

Her  story  of  "  Where  the  Battle  was  Fought " 
is  a  novel  of  picturesque  power,  though  "  The 
Prophet  of  the  Great  Smoky  Mountain  "  has  been 
considered  her  best. 

"  In  the  Tennessee  Mountains  "  is  a  collection 
of  eight  short  stories.  "  Down  the  Ravine  "  is 
called  a  story  for  young  people,  but  no  one  should 
be  too  old  to  be  delighted  by  its  bright  sketches 
of  scenery  in  the  Cumberland  Mountains.  How 
close  the  story  gets  to  every  mother's  heart  when 
the  mountaineer  mother  says :  "  Don't  everybody 
know  a  boy's  mother  air  boun'  ter  take  his  part 
agin  all  the  worl'?"  and  what  more  pathetic  and 


MARY   NOAILLES   MURFREE          217 

touching  character  than  the  little  sister,  "  Tennes 
see,"  who  "  ain't  purty,  but  she's  powerful 
peart " !  Miss  Murfree's  stories  are  pure  and 
wholesome,  a  benefit  to  all  who  read  them. 
Among  the  best-known  are :  "  In  the  Clouds," 
"  Keedon  Bluffs,"  "  His  Vanished  Star,"  "  The 
Mystery  of  Witch  Face  Mountain." 

IN    THE  CLOUDS 

"Where  be  ye  goin',  Lethe?"  demanded  Mrs.  Sayles, 
ruthlessly  interrupting  Jacob's  monologue. 

"  Ter  hunt  up  that  thar  lamb,"  replied  Alethea  calmly, 
as  if  nothing  else  had  been  under  discussion.  "  I  ain't  seen 
nuthin'  of  it  ter-day,  an'  some  o'  the  chill'n — I  believe 
'twas  Joe — 'lowed  its  dam  were  down  yander  nigh  Boke's 
spring  yesteddy,  actin'  sorter  cur'ous,  an'  I  reckon  suthin's 
happened  ter  it." 

Doaks  looked  after  her  as  she  went,  tempted  to  follow. 

She  took  the  way  down  the  path  beside  the  zigzag  rail 
fence.  All  the  corners  were  rank  with  wild  flowers,  vines 
and  bushes,  among  which  her  golden  head  showed  from 
time  to  time  as  in  a  wreath.  She  was  soon  without  the 
limits  of  Wild  Cat  Hollow.  More  than  once  she  paused 
as  she  went,  holding  her  hands  above  her  eyes,  and  look 
ing  at  the  vast  array  of  mountains  on  every  side.  A  for 
eign  land  to  her,  removed  even  from  vague  speculation, 
she  saw  only  how  those  august  summits  lifted  themselves 
into  the  sky,  how  the  clouds,  weary-winged,  were  fain 
to  rest  upon  them.  There  was  a  vague  blurring  at  the 
horizon  line,  for  a  shower  was  succeeded  by  mist.  The 


218          MARY   NOAILLES   MURFREE 

woods  intervened  presently;  the  long  stretches  of  the 
majestic  avenues  lay  before  her,  all  singularly  open, 
cleared  of  undergrowth  by  the  fiery  besom  of  the  autumn 
conflagration.  It  was  very  silent ;  once  only  she  heard  the 
shrill  trilling  of  a  tree  frog;  and  once  the  insistent  clamor 
of  the  locust  broke  out  close  at  hand,  vibrating  louder  and 
louder  and  dying  away,  to  be  caught  up  antiphonally  in 
the  distance.  Often  she  noted  the  lightning-scathed  trees, 
the  fated  of  the  forest,  writhen  and  blanched  and  spectral 
among  their  flourishing  kindred.  There  were  presently 
visible  at  the  end  of  the  long  leafy  vista  other  dead  trees; 
their  blight  was  more  prosaic;  they  stood  girdled  and 
white  in  an  abandoned  field  that  lay  below  the  slope  on 
which  she  had  paused,  and  near  the  base  of  the  mountain. 
A  broken,  rotting  rail-fence  still  encircled  it.  Blackberry 
bushes,  broom-sedge,  a  tangle  of  weeds,  were  a  travesty 
of  its  crops.  A  fox,  a  swift-scudding  tawny  streak,  sped 
across  it  as  she  looked.  Hard  by  there  was  a  deserted 
hut :  the  doors  were  open,  showing  dark  voids  within ;  the 
batten  shutters  flapped  with  every  changing  whim  of  the 
winds.  Fine  sport  they  often  had,  those  riotous  mountain 
sprites,  shrieking  down  the  chimney  to  affright  the  loneli 
ness;  then  falling  to  sobs  and  sighs  to  mock  the  voices  of 
those  who  had  known  sorrow  here  and  perhaps  shed  tears ; 
sometimes  wrapping  themselves  in  snow  as  in  a  garment, 
and  reeling  in  fantastic  whirls  through  forlorn  and  empty 
place;  sometimes  twitting  the  gaunt  timbers  with  their 
infirmities,  and  one  wild  night  wrenching  off  half  a  dozen 
clapboards  from  the  roof  and  scattering  them  about  the 
door.  Thus  the  moon  might  look  in,  seeing  no  more  than 
those  whose  eyes  had  once  met  its  beam,  and  even  the 
sunlight  had  melancholy  intimations  when  it  shone  on  the 


MARY   NOAILLES   MURFREE          219 

forsaken  hearth-stone.  A  screech-owl  had  found  refuge 
among  the  rafters,  and  Alethea  heard  its  quavering  scream 
ending  in  a  low,  sinister  chuckle.  There  was  a  barn  near 
at  hand, — a  structure  of  undaubed,  unhewn  logs,  with 
wide-open  pass-way  below  the  loft  to  shelter  wagons  and 
farm  implements ;  it  seemed  in  better  repair  than  the 
house.  The  amber  sky  above  the  dark  woods  had  deep 
ened  to  orange,  to  crimson ;  the  waning  light  suffused  the 
waters  of  the  spring  branch  which  flowed  close  by  the 
barn,  the  willows  leaning  to  it,  the  ferns  laving  in  it. 
The  place  was  incredibly  solitary  and  mournful  with  the 
persistent  spectacle  of  the  deserted  house,  suggestive  of 
collapsed  energies,  of  the  defeated  schemes  of  some  simple 
humanity. 

A  faint  bleat  rose  suddenly.  Alethea  turned  quickly. 
Amongst  a  patch  of  briars  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  some 
thing  white;  another  glance, — it  was  the  ewe,  quietly 
nibbling  the  grass.  Alethea  had  no  intention  of  moving 
softly,  but  her  skirts  brushing  through  the  weeds  made 
hardly  a  sound.  Her  light,  sure  step  scarcely  stirred  a 
leaf.  The  ewe  saw  her  presently  and  paused  in  feeding. 
She  had  been  making  the  best  of  her  woes,  remaining  near 
her  lamb,  which  had  fallen  into  a  sink-hole,  sustained  by 
the  earth,  gravel  and  banks  of  leaves  held  in  the  mouth  of 
the  cavity.  Its  leg  was  broken,  and  thus,  although  the 
sheep  could  venture  to  it,  the  lamb  could  not  follow  to 
the  vantage-ground  above.  Seeing  that  succor  was  at 
hand,  the  sheep  lost  all  patience  and  calmness,  and  ran 
about  Alethea  in  a  distracting  fashion,  bleating,  till  the 
lamb,  roused  to  a  renewed  sense  of  its  calamities,  bleated 
piteously  too.  As  it  lay  down  in  the  cavity  upon  the  dead 
leaves,  it  had  a  strangely  important  look  upon  its  face, 


22O 

appreciating  how  much  stir  it  was  making  in  the  world 
for  one  of  its  size.  Alethea  noticed  this,  albeit  she  was  too 
self-absorbed  at  the  moment.  These  treacherous  hopper- 
shaped  sink-holes  are  of  indefinite  depth,  and  are  often 
the  mouths  of  caves.  To  reach  the  lamb  she  must  needs 
venture  half  way  across  the  cavity.  She  stepped  cautiously 
down  the  debris,  holding  fast  the  while  to  the  branches 
of  an  elder-bush  growing  on  its  verge.  She  felt  the  earth 
sinking  beneath  her  feet.  The  sheep,  which  had  jumped 
in  too,  sprang  hastily  out.  Alethea  had  a  'dizzy  realiza 
tion  of  insecurity.  She  caught  the  lamb  in  one  arm,  then 
stepped  upon  the  sinking  mass,  and  struggled  up  the  side 
of  the  aperture,  as  with  a  great  gulp  the  leaves  and  earth 
were  swallowed  into  the  cavity.  She  looked  down  with 
that  sickening  sense  of  a  sheer  escape,  still  holding  the 
lamb  in  one  arm;  the  other  hand  readjusted  the  heavy 
masses  of  her  golden  hair,  and  the  saffron  kerchief  about 
the  neck  of  her  brown  dress.  The  sheep,  one  anxiety  re 
moved,  was  the  prey  of  another,  and  pressed  close  to 
Alethea,  with  outstretched  head  and  all  the  fears  of  kid 
napping  in  her  pleading  eyes.  Alethea  waited  for  a  mo 
ment  to  rest.  Then  as  she  glanced,  over  her  shoulder 
her  heart  seemed  to  stand  still,  her  brain  reeled,  and,  but 
for  her  acute  consciousness,  she  would  have  thought  she 
must  be  dreaming.  The  clearing  lay  there  all  as  it  was 
a  moment  before;  the  deserted  buildings,  the  weed-grown 
fields,  the  rotting  rail  fence;  the  woods  dark  about  it,  the 
sky  red  above  it.  Around  and  around  the  old  barn,  in  a 
silent  circuit,  three  men  were  solemnly  tramping  in 
single  file.  She  stood  staring  at  them  with  dilated  eyes, 
all  the  mystic  traditions  of  supernatural  manifestations 
uppermost  in  her  mind.  Once  more  the  owl's  scream  rent 


MARY   NOAILLES   MURFREE          221 

the  brooding  stillness.  How  far  that  low,  derisive  chuckle 
echoed!  A  star,  melancholy,  solitary,  was  in  the  pensive 
sky.  The  men's  faces  were  grave, — once,  twice,  thrice, 
they  made  the  round.  Then  they  stood  together  in  the 
open  space  beneath  the  loft,  and  consulted  in  whispers. 
One  suddenly  spoke  aloud. 

"Oh,  Tobe!  "  he  called. 

"Tobe!"  called  the  echoes. 

There  was  no  answer.  All  three  looked  up  wistfully. 
Then  they  again  conferred  together  in  a  low  tone. 

"Oh,  Tobias!"  cried  the  spokesman  in  a  voice  of  en 
treaty. 

"  Tobias !  "  pleaded  the  plaintive  echoes.  Still  there 
was  no  answer.  The  owl  screamed  suddenly  in  its  weird, 
shrill  tones.  It  had  flown  out  from  among  the  rafters  and 
perched  on  the  smokeless  chimney  of  the  hut.  Then  its 
uncanny  laughter  filled  the  interval. 

Once  more  the  men  whispered  anxiously  to  each  other. 
One  of  them,  a  tall,  ungainly,  red-haired  fellow,  seemed 
to  have  evolved  a  solution  of  the  problem  which  had 
baffled  them. 

"Mister  Winkeye!"  he  exclaimed,  with  vociferous 
confidence. 

The  echoes  were  forestalled.  A  sneeze  rang  out  ab 
ruptly  from  the  loft  of  the  deserted  old  barn, — a  sneeze 
resonant,  artificial,  grotesque  enough  to  set  the  blades 
below  to  roaring  with  delighted  laughter. 

"  He  mus'  hev  his  joke.  Mr.  Winkeye  air  a  mighty 
jokified  old  man,"  declared  the  red-haired  fellow. 

They  made  no  effort  to  hold  further  communication 
with  the  sneezer  in  the  loft.  They  hastily  placed  a  burly 
jug  in  the  center  of  the  space  below,  and  laid  a  silver  half- 


222          MARY   NOAILLES   MURFREE 

dollar  upon  the  cob  that  served  as  stopper.  The  coin 
looked  extremely  small  in  this  juxtaposition.  There 
may  be  people  elsewhere  who  would  be  glad  of  a  silver 
coin  of  that  size  capable  of  rilling  so  disproportionately 
large  a  jug.  Then  they  ran  off  fleetly  out  of  the  clearing 
into  the  woods,  and  Alethea  could  hear  the  brush  cracking 
as  they  dashed  through  it  on  the  slopes  below. 

She  was  still  pale  and  tremulous,  but  no  longer  doubts 
beset  her.  She  understood  the  wiles  of  the  illicit  distiller, 
pursued  so  closely  by  the  artifices  of  the  raiders,  that  he 
was  prone  to  distrust  the  very  consumers  of  his  whiskey. 
They  never  saw  his  face,  they  knew  not  even  his  name. 
They  had  no  faint  suspicion  where  his  still  was  hidden. 
They  were  not  even  dangerous  as  unwilling  witnesses, 
should  they  be  caught  with  the  illicit  whiskey  in  their 
hands.  The  story  that  they  had  left  a  jug  and  a  half- 
dollar  in  a  deserted  barn  and  found  the  jug  filled  and  the 
coin  vanished,  would  inculpate  no  one.  From  the  loft 
the  distiller  or  his  emissary  could  see  and  recognize  them 
as  they  came.  Alethea,  having  crept  down  the  slope 
amongst  the  briars  in  search  of  the  lamb,  had  been  con 
cealed  from  him.  She  was  seized  with  instant  desire  to 
get  way  before  he  should  appear.  She  coveted  the  knowl 
edge  of  no  such  dangerous  secret.  She  walked  boldly  out 
from  the  leafy  covert,  that  he  might  see  her  in  the  clear 
ing  and  delay  till  she  was  gone. 

The  lamb  was  bleating  faintly  in  her  arms ;  the  sheep 
pressed  close  to  her  side,  nudging  her  elbow  with  insistent 
nozzle.  The  last  flush  of  the  day  was  on  her  shining  hair 
and  her  grave,  earnest  face.  The  path  led  her  by  the  barn. 
She  hesitated,  stopped,  and  drew  back  hastily.  A  man 
was  swinging  himself  alertly  down  from  the  loft.  He 


MARY   NOAILLES   MURFREE          223 

caught  up  the  coin,  slipped  it  into  his  pocket,  and  lifted 
the  jug  with  the  other  hand.  The  next  moment  he 
dropped  it  suddenly,  with  a  startled  exclamation.  His 
eyes  had  met  her  eyes.  There  was  a  moment  of  suspense 
charged  with  mutual  recognition.  Then  she  ran  hastily 
by,  never  pausing  till  she  was  far  away  in  the  deep  ob 
scurity  of  the  woods. 

Courtesy  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


MARIA   J.    McINTOSH 

"  OF  noble  Scottish  descent,  tracing  back  to  the 
clan  Mclntosh,  famous  in  history  as  loyal  adher 
ents  to  the  House  of  Stuart,  Maria  J.  Mclntosh 
was  born  in  Georgia,  in  the  village  of  Sunbury, 
not  far  from  Savannah,  and  there  received  her 
primal  stamp  and  stamina." 

Captain  John  Moore  Mclntosh,  her  great 
grandfather,  was  driven  from  Scotland  by  the  fall 
of  the  Stuarts,  and  set  sail,  with  one  hundred  re 
tainers,  for  the  Georgia  colony,  in  1735.  They 
landed  on  the  banks  of  the  Altamaha,  and  called 
their  settlement  (now  known  as  Darien)  "  New 
Inverness,"  in  memory  of  the  homeland.  The 
county  still  bears  the  original  name,  Mclntosh. 
Major  Lachlan  Mclntosh,  the  father  of  Maria, 
was  an  officer  in  the  Revolutionary  War,  and  after 
wards  became  a  successful  lawyer.  After  the 
Revolution  Major  Mclntosh  married,  removed  to 
the  village  of  Sunbury,  and  here  Maria  Mclntosh 
was  born  and  reared. 

She  attended  the  academy  in  Sunbury,  and 
nursed  her  invalid  mother  for  many  years,  and 
this  experience  developed  the  young  girl's  mental 
and  moral  strength. 

224 


MARIA  J.  M'INTOSH  225 

In  1835,  after  the  death  of  father  and  mother, 
Miss  Mclntosh  went  to  live  in  New  York  with  her 
brother,  Captain  James  M.  Mclntosh,  of  the 
United  States  Navy. 

"  It  was  suggested  by  a  friend  to  Miss  Mcln 
tosh  that  she  should  try  her  literary  powers  in  a 
series  of  juvenile  tales.  Under  the  name  of 
'  Aunt  Kitty '  this  talented  Georgian  published 
'  Blind  Alice  '  with  marked  success." 

Then  came  "  Jessie  Graham,"  "  Florence  Ar- 
nott,"  "  Grace  and  Clara,"  and  "  Ellen  Leslie  " 
in  rapid  succession,  "  each  story  pure  as  a  dew- 
drop,  sparkling  in  its  own  jewel  of  moral  truth." 

Then  followed  the  more  ambitious  books, 
"  Conquest  and  Self-Conquest,"  "  Praise  and 
Principle  "  and  "  Two  Lives."  In  1848  appeared 
"  Charms  and  Counter  Charms,"  "  a  work  in 
which  the  author  seems  to  have  concentrated  the 
strength  of  her  artistic  and  womanly  nature.  It 
is  threaded  with  veins  and  nerves,  as  if  she  had 
dipped  her  pen  in  living  hearts,  and  had  written 
on  because  the  electric  tide  would  flow." 

In  1853  "The  Lofty  and  the  Lowly"  was 
published  and  sold  rapidly  at  home  and  abroad. 
In  company  with  her  nephew,  the  Hon.  John 
Ward,  Miss  Mclntosh  sailed  for  Liverpool  in 
1859,  and  she  enjoyed  months  of  travel  in  Eng 
land  and  France,  settling  for  a  time  with  Mrs. 
Ward,  her  brother's  wife,  in  Switzerland.  "  Their 


226  MARIA  J.  M'INTOSH 

cottage,  shut  in  by  Alpine  Heights,"  was  fit  home 
for  gathering  food  and  inspiration  for  future  au 
thorship.  Miss  Mclntosh  was  known  to  the  read 
ing  world  chiefly  through  her  prose  writings,  yet 
she  published  fragments  of  song,  such  as  "  A  La 
ment,"  "  A  Paean,"  and  "  A  Prayer,"  which  are 
true  poems.  Her  books  have  all  been  translated 
into  French,  and  were  largely  sold  in  France  and 
England.  Love  of  locality  and  home  is  expressed 
in  "  A  Southern  Home." 

Home!  Home!  I  have  had  too  many  resting  places  in 
my  not  very  long  life — this  is  my  twentieth  birthday — 
but  I  have  had,  I  can  have,  but  one  home.  For  eight 
years  I  have  not  seen  it,  with  the  bodily  eye,  and  yet  how 
vividly  it  stands  before  me!  A  week  ago  I  determined  to 
paint  it,  and  the  picture,  to  which  I  have  given  every 
moment  of  leisure,  is  done;  here  in  this  record  of  thought 
and  feeling  meant  only  for  myself,  I  may  say  what  I  truly 
think. 

There  is  the  very  beach  where  I  gathered  shells  with 
my  faithful  nurse,  my  kind,  devoted  Charity.  To  the 
eastward  the  blue  waves  are  lifting  their  white  foam- 
crests  to  the  sun;  inland  I  can  distinguish  amid  the  mass 
of  verdure  which  marked  the  utmost  tropical  luxuriance 
of  St.  Mary's  Isle,  the  glistening  leaves  of  the  orange- 
trees  only  half  concealing  their  snowy  flowers  and  golden 
fruit,  and  the  darker  green  of  the  old  oaks,  "  the  king 
of  forests  all,"  from  whose  giant  boughs  the  long  pendant 
moss  suspends  its  floating  drapery  of  silver  gray.  Within 
the  circle  of  those  live  oaks  rises  the  home  which  sheltered 


MARIA  J.  M'INTOSH  227 

my  orphan  childhood :  a  frame  building  two  stories  high, 
and  surrounded  by  a  piazza.,  whose  pillars,  wreathed  with 
roses,  honeysuckles  and  woodbine,  gave  something  of  airy 
brightness  to  what  would  otherwise  have  been  without 
ornament  and  grace. 


THOMAS   NELSON    PAGE 
1853 

THIS  American  writer  of  dialect  stories  was 
born  at  Oakland  plantation,  Hanover  County,  Vir 
ginia.  His  early  life  was  passed  upon  the  estate 
which  belonged  to  his  maternal  ancestor,  Thomas 
Nelson.  He  was  educated  at  Washington  and  Lee 
University  and  there  studied  law,  afterwards  prac 
ticing  in  Richmond.  As  a  delineator  of  negro  dia 
lect  and  character  there  are  few  men  who  equal 
him,  and  possibly  none  excel  him.  He  has  won 
for  himself  a  lasting  and  enviable  name  in  the 
world  of  letters.  His  first  literary  attempts  were 
in  the  shape  of  negro  dialect  stories  and  poems, 
and  they  were  so  well  received  that  he  settled  down 
to  the  steady,  hard  work  necessary  for  a  literary 
career.  The  first  real  story  of  any  length  which 
came  from  his  pen  was  entitled  "  In  Old  Virginia," 
and  appeared  in  1887.  Shortly  after  its  appear 
ance  a  leading  critic  said:  "  To  Mr.  Page  all  eyes 
will  now  be  turned,  for  he  has  done  something 
in  a  literary  way  notably  excellent  and  pointing 
easily  to  a  future  bright  with  a  sunlit  path." 

His  second  story,  published  in  1883,  "  Two  Lit- 
228 


THOMAS   NELSON   PAGE  229 

tie  Confederates,"  was  even  better  than  "  In  Old 
Virginia."  But  his  greatest  production  came  later 
when  his  pen  brought  forth  those  undying  master 
pieces,  "Marsc  Chan,"  "  Meh  Lady,"  "Red 
Rock,"  and  his  latest,  "  Gordon  Keith."  "  These 
four  books  are  destined  to  live  beyond  this  age, 
for  they  tell  a  tale  of  life  and  character  equal  to 
that  told  by  Dickens." 

Page  has  one  charm  which  few  latter-day  writ 
ers  possess,  namely,  absolute  perfectness  of  fin 
ish  as  to  style  and  rhetoric.  He  turns  out  no 
"  shoddy  "  or  hasty  work.  His  stories  delineate 
the  old  Virginia  darky  and  his  dialect,  as  Mr. 
Harris  does  the  darky  of  the  Carolinas  and  Geor 
gia.  There  is  a  marked  difference  in  the  language 
of  the  negro  in  different  sections  of  the  South. 

"  The  naturalness  of  this  author's  style,  the 
skill  with  which  he  uses  seemingly  indifferent  inci 
dents  and  sayings  to  light  up  his  pictures,  the  ap 
parently  unintentional  and  therefore  most  effective 
touches  of  pathos,  are  uncommon." 

That  this  writer's  life  has  been  a  busy  one,  is 
evidenced  by  the  number  of  his  books : 

"In  Old  Virginia,"  "Two  Little  Confeder 
ates,"  "On  Newfoundland  River,"  "The  Old 
South,"  "  Among  the  Camps,"  "  Elsket  and  Other 
Stories,"  "Befo'  de  War,"  "Pastime  Stories," 
"  The  Burial  of  the  Guns,"  "  Unc'  Edinburgh," 
11  Meh  Lady,"  "  Marse  Chan,"  "  Polly,"  "  Social 


230  THOMAS   NELSON   PAGE 

Life  in  Old  Virginia,"  "  The  Old  Gentleman  of 
the  Black  Stock,"  "  Two  Prisoners,"  "  Red 
Rock,"  "Santa  Claus's  Partner,"  UA  Captured 
Santa  Glaus,"  "  Gordon  Keith." 

This  extract  from  "A  Soldier  of  the  Empire" 
depicts  the  patriotism  of  the  French  soldier,  and 
the  closing  paragraph  emphasizes  the  fact  that  if 
we  have  won  the  "  Cross  of  Honor,"  it  will  show 
upon  our  breast,  even  after  death. 


A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  EMPIRE 

"  Go  back.  Upon  it  depends  the  fate  of  France.  Hold 
it  for  France,"  the  officer  called  after  him. 

The  words  were  heard  perfectly  clear  even  above  the 
din  of  battle  which  was  steadily  increasing  all  along  the 
line,  and  they  stirred  the  old  soldier  like  a  trumpet.  No 
rear  for  him!  He  turned  and  pushed  back  up  the  hill  at 
a  run.  The  road  had  somewhat  changed  since  he  left, 
but  he  marked  it  not;  shot  and  shell  were  plowing  across 
his  path  more  thickly,  but  he  heeded  them  not;  in  his 
ears  rang  the  words, — "For  France!"  They  came  like 
an  echo  from  the  past;  it  was  the  same  cry  he  had  heard 
at  Waterloo,  when  the  soldiers  of  France  that  summer 
day  had  died  for  France  and  the  Emperor,  with  a  cheer 
on  their  lips.  "  For  France !  "  The  words  were  conse 
crated;  the  Emperor  himself  had  used  them.  He  had 
heard  him,  and  would  have  died  then;  should  he  not  die 
now  for  her!  Was  it  not  glorious  to  die  for  France,  and 


THOMAS    NELSON    PAGE  231 

have  men  say  he  had  fought  for  her  when  a  babe,  and  had 
died  for  her  when  an  old  man !  .  .  . 

Although  this  had  occupied  but  a  few  minutes,  mo 
mentous  changes  had  taken  place  on  the  ridge  above.  The 
sound  of  the  battle  had  somewhat  changed,  and  with  the 
roar  of  artillery  were  mingled  now  the  continuous  rattle 
of  the  musketry  and  the  shouts  and  cheers  of  the  contend 
ing  troops.  The  fierce  onslaught  of  the  Prussians  had 
broken  the  line  somewhere  beyond  the  batteries  and  the 
French  were  being  borne  back.  Almost  immediately  the 
slope  was  filled  with  retreating  men  hurrying  back  in  the 
demoralization  of  a  panic.  All  order  was  lost.  It  was 
a  rout.  The  soldiers  of  his  own  regiment  began  to  rush 
by  the  spot  where  the  old  sergeant  stood  above  his  dead 
son's  body.  Recognizing  him,  some  of  his  comrades  seized 
his  arm  and  attempted  to  hurry  him  along,  but  with  a 
fierce  exclamation  the  old  soldier  shook  them  off,  and 
raising  his  voice  so  that  he  was  heard  even  above  the 
tumult  of  the  rout,  he  shouted,  "Are  ye  all  cowards? 
Rally  for  France — for  France — !  " 

They  tried  to  bear  him  along ;  the  officers  they  said  were 
dead.  The  Prussians  had  captured  the  guns,  and  had 
broken  the  whole  line ;  but  it  was  no  use,  still  he  shouted 
that  rallying  cry,  "  For  France,  for  France,  vive  la 
France,  vive  1'Empereur,"  and  steadied  by  the  war-cry, 
accustomed  to  obey  an  officer,  the  men  around  him  fell 
instinctively  into  something  like  order,  and  for  an  instant 
the  rout  was  arrested.  The  fight  was  renewed  over 
Pierre's  dead  body.  As  they  had,  however,  truly  said, 
the  Prussians  were  too  strong  for  them.  They  had  carried 
the  line  and  were  now  pouring  down  the  hill  by  thousands 
in  the  ardor  of  hot  pursuit;  the  line  on  either  side  was 


232  THOMAS   NELSON   PAGE 

swept  away,  and  while  the  gallant  little  band  about  the 
old  soldier  still  stood  and  fought  desperately,  they  were 
soon  surrounded.  There  was  no  thought  of  quarter ;  none 
was  asked,  none  was  given.  Cries,  curses,  cheers,  shots, 
blows,  were  mingled  together,  and  clear  above  all  rang 
the  old  soldier's  war-cry,  "  For  France,  for  France,  vive 
la  France,  vive  1'Empereur!  "  It  was  the  refrain  from  an 
older  and  bloodier  field.  He  thought  he  was  at  Waterloo. 
Mad  with  excitement,  the  men  took  up  the  cry  and  fought 
like  tigers,  but  the  issue  could  not  be  doubtful. 

Man  after  man  fell,  shot  or  clubbed  down  with  the 
cry  "  For  France!  "  on  his  lips,  and  his  comrades,  stand 
ing  astride  his  body,  fought  with  bayonets  and  clubbed 
muskets  till  they  too  fell  in  turn.  Almost  the  last  one  was 
the  old  sergeant.  Wounded  to  death,  and  bleeding  from 
numberless  gashes,  he  still  fought,  shouting  his  battle  cry, 
"  For  France!  "  till  his  musket  was  hurled  spinning  from 
his  shattered  hand,  and,  staggering  senseless  back,  a  dozen 
bayonets  were  driven  into  his  breast,  crushing  out  for 
ever  the  brave  spirit  of  the  soldier  of  the  Empire. 

It  was  best,  for  France  was  lost    .    .    . 

That  night  a  group  of  Prussian  officers  going  over  the 
field  with  lanterns  looking  after  their  wounded,  stopped 
near  the  spot  where  the  old  sergeant  had  made  his  last 
stand  for  France,  a  spot  remarkable  even  on  that  bloody 
slope  for  the  heaps  of  dead  of  both  armies  literally  piled 
upon  each  other. 

"It  was  just  here,"  said  one,  "  that  they  made  that 
splendid  rally." 

A  second,  looking  at  the  body  of  the  old  French  ser 
geant  lying  amid  heaps  of  slain  with  his  face  to  the  sky, 
as  he  saw  his  scars,  said  simply: 


THOMAS   NELSON   PAGE  233 

"  There  died  a  brave  soldier." 

Another,  older  than  the  first,  bending  closer  to  count 
the  bayonet  wounds,  caught  the  gleam  of  something  in 
the  light  of  the  lantern,  and,  stooping  to  examine  a  broken 
cross  of  the  Legion  on  the  dead  man's  breast,  said 
reverently : 
"  He  was  a  SOLDIER  OF  THE  EMPIRE." 

By  permission  of  author  and  Century  Co.,  publishers, 
New  York. 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


MAY  1 1  1933 
MAY  ]__      1934 

:     . 


JAN  25 1956 

NOV  £92361 


*%l23l 

\4*® 
flft> 


APR  30 

JUL  9      1937 

AUG  5 


